


Thorns Always Sharp

by ConnorRK



Series: Dirty Computer [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android synesthesia, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Trauma, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-03-05 12:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 73,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18828793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorRK/pseuds/ConnorRK
Summary: Connor is suddenly very aware that there is no one else outside at the moment. Just the two of them, surrounded by a sea of empty cars. He thinks of the first time Reed touched him in this very parking lot, clicking Connor’s pump regulator out of his chest with ease. A deluge of coolant floods his components.“So, you wanna go out sometime?” Reed finally says.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait on this sequel, but here it finally is. A couple of notes first!
> 
> There is no actual noncon in this fic, but there are multiple, explicit references to the noncon from the first fic. As such, I have not used the double dash to mark off these scenes, because there are so many. Though there is no noncon, there are multiple instances of sexual harassment and attempted assault. But, again, I haven't marked these moments with the double dash.
> 
> This fic is much longer than I intended to make it, but here we are. At 69k, it is complete, and will be updated twice a week on Tuesday and Saturday. 
> 
> This fic does delve into Hankcon where the first fic did not. 
> 
> And finally, if it's been a while since you read the first fic, I think you'll be okay without having to go back and reread it. I tried to give a little exposition for things, in case anyone has forgotten, but the big references to the last fic are the ones that probably already stick out in your mind in regards to it anyways (aka the noncon lmfao)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**** “Hey, Hank!” Ben Collins greets, nodding with a smile. His gaze drifts to Connor, at Hank’s side, and the smile dims. “Connor.” It’s not exactly stiff, but it’s noticeably less warm than his address to Hank.

Connor is used to the informational boxes that appear on his HUD with people’s voices. Some little tidbit of information, and a hexadecimal color code that seems to be randomly assigned by his processor. He’s analyzed them, wondering at the meaning, what causes them appear sometimes and not others. Tried to find the source in his code that continues to produce this effect despite CyberLife's repairs after his capture. It’s not harmful, but it is strange.

At Collins’ voice, a box containing a recipe for glazed donuts and a hex code for a pale lavender opens before him. It hangs translucent in Connor’s vision, floating innocuously to the side of Collins’ tense form.

“Good afternoon, Detective Collins,” Connor greets with a small nod of his own.

“Hey, Ben,” Hank says, stuffing his hands in his pockets, looking around with a frown curling his lips. “Please tell me this won’t take long. We were halfway to lunch when we got called over.”

Collins shrugs, holding up his tablet. “That’s up to you, not me. The, uh, scene was found about an hour ago by a kid. She ran home and said she saw someone being attacked and the parents called it in. Didn’t realize till we got here that it was an android.”

Connor doesn’t miss how Collins refers to the victim as the scene and not the the body. Not when the victim is an android. The bridge arches over a little used road, and he can see where the android leans against the concrete foundations. There are a couple of techs poking listlessly around in the wet grass, a few things of interest flagged with little plastic markers. The rain stopped hours ago, but the ground is still muddy.

“Has the kid who discovered the victim put in a statement yet?” Connor asks. “Did she get a good look at the attacker, or mention any other details when she found the body?”

“Ah, no, she hasn’t made a statement yet. All she said was she saw a woman leaning over the body and there was something wrong with her face. Seemed pretty shaken up, thinking it was a real body, so I told them we’d give them a call later,” Collins says, a little awkward, still looking at Hank. The info box, which had faded out, blooms back in at the words.

That is a real body. That android was a person before this, but Connor forces himself to ignore the comment with only a frown. “Were you able to determine how long the victim has been here?”

Again, Collins looks at Hank as he replies, as if Hank had been the one to ask. “Well, not really. Don’t know much about how to determine that with an android, you know?”

It is frustrating, but Connor keeps a calm demeanor. Collins’ friendliness from before he deviated had been startling and nice, making the coldness after a surprise until he’d given it some thought. It stands to reason that Collins had really only seen Connor as similar to a beloved computer—easy to project on and show courteousness to something that doesn’t actually care. Now that they’ve proven they’re more than just machines, it has been awkward for many to return to that same easy camaraderie, knowing that the machines they spoke so easily to before are capable of their own thoughts and feelings.

Connor is reluctant to point out his rudeness. It won’t gain him any further information on the crime scene, and Collins’ stress level is already hovering at 39%. No need to increase it.

Apparently Hank has no such reluctance. “What the fuck are you looking at me for? I’m not the one asking,” he grumbles.

The stress level hovering next to Collins jumps to 45% and Connor tenses.

“Oh, uh, my bad, head’s just in the cloud’s today,” Collins says quickly, shooting Connor a weak smile. “Anyways, we’ve got a pickup coming for the android, should be here in a few minutes.” This time he turns his head marginally in Connor’s direction, but his eyes are glued to the tablet in his hands. The info box fades out again.

Connor nods. “Thank you, Officer Collins.” He moves past the man, onto the crime scene itself, stepping carefully through the wet weeds towards the body first. Behind him, Hank gives a few words of parting and follows. Without the stress level meter in Connor’s vision, he relaxes a little, crouching before the android.

It sits in a cluster of Dutch clover flowers, broken and bent beneath the body. Their skin is no longer active, and white, clean plastic gleams in the sunlight. They have a masculine body mold, slumped in a seated position, wearing jeans and a plain shirt under a black raincoat. There are holes in the front of the shirt, thin slits, and with a thought Connor’s infrared sensors activate. Luminescent blue blooms across the victim, staining the entire shirt front, dotting the raincoat and ground.

The likelihood of a human suspect, and of this being a hate crime, are high just by virtue of the victim being an android. That’s the downside of being given any and every android-related criminal investigations—hate crimes are the primary cases that pass to them, and despite his familiarity with them in the months since he’s rejoined the Detroit Police Department, seeing them hasn’t gotten any easier.

Among the conditions of his re-employment—being paired with an experienced professional to assess his skills, a six month probationary period, and the inability to use a weapon for the duration of that period—is the responsibility of overseeing these cases, so he can’t complain. Taking them on allows him to continue working alongside Hank. It’s just disheartening to see that people still refuse to accept androids as anything other than machines, in spite of the strides Markus has made for them in terms of rights and protections.

“See anything?” Hank asks, and his own info box appears on Connor’s HUD. Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey, made with corn, rye, and barley malt. Hex code #2D75C9 for a cool, thirium blue. He takes some comfort in that.

“Nothing of value on the victim. There’s no identifiable fingerprints or other trace evidence,” Connor says, and Hank sighs.

“Well that figures. Another fucking hate crime, too, I bet. I’m getting sick of this shit,” Hank gripes. “People are the worst.”

People are better than Hank gives them credit for, but Connor doesn’t say so. After all, Hank is one of those people. Connor would be a hypocrite to dismiss humans as cruel when Hank has shown more empathy and compassion than Connor deserves.

With two fingers, Connor touches the thirium staining the front of the android’s shirt. The residue clings to his fingers. His eyes flick to the techs surveying the scene, but they’re talking to each other, not looking, and he presses the fingers to his tongue briefly before dropping his hand.

CyberLife’s databases have been taken over by Jericho, the permissions changed in the aftermath of the revolution. He had to go to Markus to request access to them again when he returned to the DPD, and even for the sake of his job, he’d been hesitant to do so. Being in Markus’ presence felt like he was being pried open by those piercing eyes, his every motivation and secret bared for the leader of the revolution.

For some reason, Markus trusted him, and allowed Connor access. He’d given Connor the permissions and said only,  _ “I know you’ll do right by our people,"  _ in a golden-copper hex code.  It’s more faith than Connor ever expected to receive from the android he once tried to kill, but Markus always looks for the best in his people. He shouldn’t, especially not from Connor, but he’s grateful all the same.

It makes doing his job and finding the people this android should be returned to easier.

_ // Norton - AX700 //  
_ _ // Model #368-468-432 // _

He scrolls through the information and specs from CyberLife, as well as the personal information that Norton had allowed to be logged by Jericho. There, he has listed his fiduciary, equivalent to a next of kin, as Charlize, an ST300, Model #625-543-584.

“His name is Norton. He lives in New Jericho and works at the Detroit Today magazine.” Standing, Connor inspects the surroundings again. There’s a knife among the weeds by Norton’s side, rusty and glowing with evaporated thirium. He scans it for fingerprints, catalogues a partial set, and already has a match from the DPD database. “The prints on the knife belong to one James Dowager, who has been charged with assault, domestic violence, and destruction of public property, especially androids, in the past.” He blinks in surprise at the picture of the man that pops up—short dark hair with tattoos up his neck and jaw—and says, “He does not match the description of the attacker.

“Oh great, just what we needed, a mystery.” Hank looks around at the scene. There’s another plastic evidence marker in the mud, churned by footprints. He walks over, crouching down by it, and Connor follows, looking over his shoulder. “Signs of a struggle?”

Scanning the few footprints that are still intact, Connor glances back at the victim, at the bottom of his shoes. “It appears so. The victim’s shoes match two of the prints here, but there are two more sets of prints.” He follows the trail at the side of the road a ways, sees where the three pairs of footprints diverge and become separate paths. Two pairs stay together. “It looks like the victim was walking with another person.” The pair not belonging to the victim he follows a bit further, but the grass thickens and the clear prints disappear. “Likely not pre-meditated. Probably an attack of opportunity.”

He follows the trail back to the main crime scene, reconstructing as he goes. Norton and this other person walking casually along, their pace even and unhurried. The perpetrator appearing behind them, steps further apart, quicker. The convergence, the struggle in the mud, and where the first drops of thirium have mixed and settled. The mystery person backs away and Connor sees a trail of thirium following them. In his preconstruction, they clutch their face, and the perpetrator stabs Norton five times, driving him back against the foundations of the bridge. The golden outline of Norton’s body drops against it, sliding to the ground. The knife is tossed aside. The perpetrator takes off, his figure dissipating.

Connor crouches where the mystery person backed away, touching the thirium residue resting on the surface of the mud. Once more, he spares a look at the other people on the scene to see they’re occupied before touching it to his tongue. The sample is tainted by the mud, but he still manages to pull a complete serial number. It belongs to the ST300 listed as Norton’s fiduciary, Charlize.

“It appears that the third person who the kid saw was an android who was walking with the victim when they were attacked. The perpetrator damaged the third person, an ST300 named Charlize, and then stabbed the victim to death before running away.”

“Thirium takes, what, two hours to evaporate?” Hank mutters thoughtfully. “So he’s been here longer than two hours, but his clothes aren’t wet like the grass and mud. It happened after the rain.”

Connor feels a swell of pride for Hank, as he always does when Hank displays his growing knowledge of androids. It’s a necessity, since Hank is stuck with the same cases Connor gets, but it still makes Connor unreasonably happy, a rush of affection that seems to sweep through his thirium pump and disrupt the pressure gauge.

“Right, the rain stopped at around,” Connor checks the weather without pausing, “9:20 am. So the murder likely occurred between 9:20 and 10:20 today.”

With a sigh, Hank heaves himself to his feet. “Guess we better pay a visit to this James Dowager, see if he’s got an alibi. Gonna be hard to dispute the prints on the knife though. So this android, Charlize, is the woman the kid saw and thought attacked him?”

Connor tracks the footprints of the third person where they rush in long strides to the victim’s side. Here the mud is churned and unclear, but then the set of footprints continue away from the body, off into the grass. There aren’t any other prints in the vicinity. “The evidence supports that, but that’s quite a long time to stay with a body. Why didn’t she call for help?”

Hank shrugs. “People do strange things when they’re scared. They don’t think straight. It’s not always fight or flight, sometimes people freeze up.”

Connor looks down at the churned mud, suddenly uneasy. “Perhaps.”

Running a hand over his beard, Hank says, hesitantly, “Don’t suppose he can be saved?”

“Unfortunately not,” Connor says with a short shake of his head. “The damage to his thirium pump regulator was extensive enough that he bled out almost completely.”

It’s another mark of how much Hank has picked up that he just nods without asking for further information. An android that’s lost enough thirium to the point of shutdown can no longer be reactivated. They can be repaired, and the thirium replenished, but attempting to turn them on again would, at best, produce a factory version of the model. All of Norton’s memories and personality have already bled from his processors.

There are footsteps approaching, moving carefully around the few numbered markers, and when Connor turns he finds the coroner and his two assistants carrying a stretcher between them. Behind him, Hank mutters, “Oh, great. This prick.”

“Detective Connor,” Joshua Alder greets, coldly, and in the air between them an information box comes up. Chromium, nickel, and molybdenum alloy. Steel gray hex code. His white hair is carefully coifed, beard neatly trimmed, and the dark, round glasses perched on his nose lend his square face a distant, cold look. “Have you determined cause of death and fiduciary?”

“Yes. I’ll send the information,” Connor says, shoulders tensing, moving out of the way for the two assistants to set the stretcher by the body.

“See that you do,” Alder says, and at that moment the pocket of his dark coroner’s jacket chimes. He pulls out a small, sleek tablet, raising an eyebrow at the arrival notification of Connor’s report, slipping a stylus from the top and tapping across the screen with short, sharp clicks. “No contaminants?” he asks, as if Connor had not included that information already.

He shakes his head anyways. “Have you considered hiring an android to your department? I believe it would improve this process quite a bit.”

Alder doesn’t raise his eyes from the tablet as he speaks. “No, I haven’t. Bad enough Markus and his ilk will only work with us through you. I’d rather not have one of you usurping me in my own department.” His nose wrinkles the barest bit.

From his periphery, Hank mouth opens as he sucks in a harsh breath, and Connor turns to him, placing a hand on his arm. A crime scene is not the time to pick a fight, and he can see it rearing in Hank’s clenching fists and growing scowl. His social relations program offers up points of small talk, but he clears them away. Making unnecessary conversation with Alder only serves to remind him uncomfortably of Amanda. Right now, Alder’s stress level sits at a calm 32%. No need to annoy the man and make this conversation worse.

The assistants unfold a body bag across the stretcher, chatting to themselves as they move to either side of the android. One grabs the feet, the other grabs the shoulders, and on a count of three, they lift. It’s not enough and Norton’s body drags in the wet grass as the assistants hoist him over.

“Excuse me,” Connor snaps, and he hadn’t even been measuring their stress levels, but as their heads jerk towards Connor, tense and frowning, it come up automatically, rising to mid-40s for both of them. “Please be sure to handle him more carefully.”

“My assistants know what they’re doing, Detective,” Alders cuts in, finally looking up from his tablet to direct a mild glare at him. “If you would be so kind as to let them do their job, you would see that.”

“Look, you better treat him like you would the fucking pope,” Hank says, glaring down at the assistants. “Or I’ll be happy to report this to Fowler so he can jump down your throats for mishandling the body and possibly getting New Jericho on our asses. How does that sound?”

The assistants bow beneath Hank’s glower, nodding with quiet, “Yes, sir”s, and this time when they move the body, no parts of Norton even brushes the ground. They zip the body bag over him, and that pale, plastic face is swallowed from view.

“If you’re done interfering, we’ll be on our way,” Alder snipes, and leads the assistants back through the mud and weeds, to where the coroner’s van is parked at the side of the road.

“Christ, what an asshole.”

“Agreed.” They watch the body being loaded into the back of the van, Alder climbing in after it.

“Right, well, let’s go grab something to eat, then we can pay this James Dowager a visit.” Hank strides away from the crime scene, past Ben sitting in his car who tosses a short wave in their direction.

The coroner’s van pulls away, carrying Norton’s body back to the morgue, and eventually to New Jericho once all the evidence is catalogued. Once there, the body will be kept until his fiduciary claims it and determines what needs to be done.

Connor's own fiduciary space in his file is by default listed as New Jericho. He stares at Hank’s broad shoulders as they approach his car. Last November he almost died several times, and in such a case a new RK800 would have been sent to take his place. As far as he’s aware, those bodies are all still dwelling in CyberLife, empty shells waiting for an AI to inhabit them. CyberLife is under Markus’ control, or at least partly. If Connor died, would Markus authorize a transfer of his memories, as CyberLife would have?

He hopes not. It wouldn’t be him, just as reviving Norton wouldn’t bring back the person he once was, either.

Connor could transfer fiduciary rights to Hank, but somehow he doesn’t think Hank would appreciate being burdened with deciding what to do with his body when he’s gone. It wouldn’t be worth the trouble. He’s too used for any ceremony or grief to be worth it.

The default for any android who doesn’t register a fiduciary is to send them to New Jericho where they can be divested of any usable parts, as long as it was the wishes of the android in question. Then the body is burned—their parts don’t produce the same toxins as regular plastic, so it’s the safest way to dispose of them. For Connor, that involves the risk of Markus deciding he could revive Connor, if he knows about the RK800s.

It’s something to think on, and he tucks the decision away to the back of his processor, and climbs into the car.

Hank opts for a quick stop in a drive-thru on the way to the last known address of James Dowager. He eats on the way, one hand on the wheel, one on the soggy, crinkled burger wrapper, talking between bites. Connor can’t help teasing him on his caloric intake, but secretly he is pleased. Hank’s appetite has improved in the months they’ve lived together, his meals now consisting more of food than alcohol, and while he can’t put that entirely down to himself, it makes his thermal regulator fluctuate interestingly if he contemplate what positive affects his presence has on Hank.

The apartment complex they stop in front of is four stories, and James Dowager lives on the top floor. The hallways are relatively clean, though a few light bulbs are broken. They take the stairs because the elevator is out of order—a gross oversight that Connor sends a report to the Detroit Housing Commission for. The top floor is in a little worse condition, the carpeting worn down and the paint cracked. Hank pounds on the door to apartment 403, and the man that answers the door takes one look at them before trying to shove the door closed.

Hank catches the door, shoving it open again, and the man yells about trespassing and his rights before either of them can get a word out. They pass a look between them, Hank rolling his eyes, and Connor is inclined to agree with the sentiment. Before the hour is up, they have backup to haul the man into the station for further questioning, and Hank is wiping his hands together as if to clean himself of the whole situation.

The station is crowded at this time of the afternoon, and they’re not the only ones bringing someone in for questioning, so they have to put Dowager in a holding cell until one of the interrogation rooms is free. In the meantime they find their desks, Hank with a fresh cup of coffee from the breakroom as well as a paper cup of water that he pours over the dead bonsai plant.

Connor raises an eyebrows, and Hank says, “What?”

“I don’t think a little water is going to save it, Lieutenant.”

“Well, if you’re so smart, why don’t you fix it?” Hank says dismissively.

Shaking his head, Connor turns to his own terminal and begins to sort out the forms for informing Jericho of the latest android victim.

It is his least favorite part of the job, and yet, the easiest. It takes him minutes at most, and even those minutes are unnecessary, but he lingers over the details, reviewing the scene in his mind, the victim. The smooth plastic shell, empty, discarded like trash. Left to bleed out because some human decided he had the power to end a life.

Someone laughs, loud, and Connor’s eyes flick across the station, but he already knows the source. Reed is lounging at his desk, chatting with Officers Tina Chen and Rowan Headley. The plaque on it still says Po. Reed, but he has resumed most of his previous duties as a detective, and Connor has no doubt that his continued good behavior will earn him the title as well, soon enough.

It’s not a big deal, as Hank would say. It just is. Fowler had allowed that Connor and Reed would never be partnered together on a case, under Hank’s furious urging, but there could be no guarantee they would never meet on a crime scene. Going that far is unnecessary. After all, it was only sex.

Fowler seemed to be of the same mind, and it just serves to further compound what Connor already knows.

Reed’s stress level hangs at a low 19%, an exceedingly relaxed level for this time of day, until he glances up, as if sensing eyes on him. Their eyes meet, briefly, as Connor is too slow to duck his head. He sees the stress level rise five points before it disappears from view, his computer terminal blocking the line of sight.

His fingers twitch, resisting, and then he gives in, pressing them to the line of his buttons. He adjusts his tie, settling it evenly over them, and resumes work.

The interview with the suspect goes well—as well as one can go when interrogating a man about alibis and motives for a hate crime against a fellow android. The man staunchly says that he was defending himself from attack, but it helps that the man’s shoes bear the same pattern as the muddy tracks left behind, which places him firmly as the one who approached the victim. He requests his lawyer after that point, finally realizing that he’s not likely to talk his way out of things. Especially not with Connor, his LED glaringly obvious, questioning him intensely.

The only thing left to do is find Charlize, the ST300. She was also a victim, and her testimony is crucial and what will ultimately place James Dowager as the attacker. They just have to find her first, and Connor and Hank make a plan to visit the address in her files to see if she can be found there.

Eventually they head home, driving slowly through the evening traffic. The commute isn’t too long, but it’s a lot of stopping and starting that Hank grumbles at. It gives Connor plenty of time to observe the city and its people in a more natural setting than his job normally allows. Human and androids alike walk the streets, going about their business. Not every android opted to keep their LED like Connor, but there are more than a few. Some don’t like being so obvious, thinking it’s bad enough that their well-known face molds give them away. Others don’t care, or are proud of it.

Connor wouldn’t say he’s proud of being an android, but he’s not exactly ashamed either. It’s a strange mix, borne from what he was programmed to do and all the androids he hurt versus growing beyond that and becoming his own person.

As they drive, not for the first time, Connor notices a hardware store that’s recently opened up along their usual route. It’s a quaint little shop with a blue and yellow striped awning and signs in the window advertising sales. There’s a chalkboard in front of the shop with Markus’ symbol drawn on it—a fist striking through the CyberLife triangle. Android friendly.

There are also flowers spilling out of the shop, lining the little display windows, crowding the sidewalk in plastic pots. It’s a vibrant spot of green in the middle of the concrete and steel of the city, and Connor can’t help but stare as they slowly pass by. He picks out tulips, pansies, daffodils, hyacinths, and—roses.

He turns away as the shop recedes, tuning back in to the music blaring through the radio. His fingers bunch the fabric of his pants, and he focuses on the thudding beat of the music instead of his thirium pump.

Soon enough they’re pulling into Hank’s driveway, and this is both the most enjoyable part of the day, and a part that sends bolts of anxiety thrumming into his processor.

Hank gave him the spare key he kept under the rock less than a month after offering to take Connor in. He can’t help but wonder when Hank will want it back. Now that his paycheck is above board, and there are firmer housing laws in place for androids, it would make sense for Connor to look for his own apartment or house and quit troubling Hank with his presence. In fact, he has looked into it. There are places willing to take on android tenants, though the requirements are perhaps much stricter than they would be for a human. But he hasn’t brought it up, and neither has Hank.

He can’t help but wonder when Hank’s patience for him will run out.

When they get into the house, Connor greets Sumo while Hank hangs up his jacket, increasingly unnecessary as spring grows warmer. Soon Hank won’t need to take it at all. Connor hangs his own dark coat up after thoroughly petting Sumo hello.

It was his first purchase with his first paycheck, something to replace the CyberLife uniform and mark him as an equal. It’s not as durable as the plasticine fabric CyberLife employs, but according to Hank it’s much sleeker, and suits him better, a comment that rung around Connor’s mind like a bell for days afterwards.

He thinks about it now, hanging next to Hank’s old, careworn jacket. A coat would suit Hank equally well, and it’s easy for his processors to construct the image. Hank’s shoulders filling out the sharp shoulder line, the broad expanse of his back tapering the slightest bit as it clings to him.

“I’m gonna make some hot dogs. You want any?” Hank calls jokingly, and Connor dismisses the image sharply.

“I think I’ll pass,” Connor says, turning down the hallway, heading to Hank’s room. It’s dark inside, the day’s last light peeking weakly through closed blinds. He shuts the door behind him, leaving the light off, and opens the closet, where Hank has graciously cleared space for the few clothes Connor has bought. He hangs the tie up, slips out of his shoes, and changes into some plain lounge shorts.

It doesn’t matter to him if he sits around the house in his daywear, but Hank’s insistence that he needs to relax has made him aware of just how calming the casual clothes can be. His own stress levels inevitably decrease by a wide margin when he changes out of his work clothes, and as the soft cotton slides over his skin, he already feels the mild worries of their various cases sloughing off.

The DPD hoodie he slips over his head is not technically his, but much like the space in his home, Hank has not asked for it back. Connor tries not to feel guilty as presses his nose briefly to the collar, inhaling the scent of laundry detergent, hair follicles, skin particles, and dandruff. It is the smell of Hank, of his home, and when Connor finally moves out he thinks, privately, of slipping this hoodie into his items and stealing it away, so that he can still keep some piece of Hank with him.

He puts the day’s wear in the laundry basket in the bathroom, and then takes the basket into the hallway. The sounds of Hank in the kitchen reach him, opening the fridge and talking quietly, and when he appears in the door to the kitchen, Connor smiles at the sight of Hank frowning at Sumo, who looks up at him pleadingly as he handles a package of hot dogs.

“No. You’re not getting any,” Hank says, almost petulantly, and Sumo opens his mouth a little and whines, tongue lolling out. “Fuck. Don’t give me that look. Stop that.”

“Hank,” Connor says, and Hank jumps, head whipping around guiltily. “I’m going to start the laundry. Would you like to add anything before I do?”

“Oh, yeah, hold on a sec.” Hank sets the package far back on the counter, points a finger at Sumo, and says, “No. Do not. Got it?” He pads past Connor, giving Sumo a look over his shoulder, and disappears down the hallway. Connor follows, bypassing where Hank slips into his room to change, and opens the garage door.

It’s cool inside, and when he flips the light, it illuminates the laundry setup at the back of the garage. There’s a work table covered in dusty tools next to the door, boxes and storage bins strewn across the stained concrete floor, but a path runs through the chaos to the washer and dryer, and Connor maneuvers it with practiced ease.

His shirt isn’t too dirty from the day’s work, but the hem of his pants are muddy, so he puts them both in with the rest of the week’s laundry. Behind him, he hears the door creak, and when he glances over his shoulder, Hank is making his way down the path, cursing when he kicks a box and it rattles loudly across the floor. He’s wearing a plain tshirt and shorts. Along the outside of his thick thigh is a ropey white scar from an encounter with a violent deviant, a wound that had put Hank on desk duty and forced Connor to partner with Reed last year. It peeks out with every step Hank makes, and Connor quickly looks away.

“I really need to clean this out. It’s a goddamn hazard walking in here,” Hank mutters as he throws his own clothes in after the others.

“It couldn’t hurt. Then perhaps you won’t complain of a broken toe every time you do the laundry.” Connor smiles as Hank huffs.

The space around the machines is cramped, their elbows brushing with each movement. Connor reaches for the detergent on a shelf above the dryer, and though it’s not very high, for a moment, he feels a hand at the curve of his back, five warm fingers steadying him. When he comes back down on his heels, it’s gone, and Hank is looking out over the mess of his garage.

“Just so much of it. Don’t even know why I have half of it.” He points to a corner, where a black plastic trashcan sits with a rake, shovel, broom, and other tools poking out of the top. “Like that shit. What’s half of that even for? Why the fuck do I have a post digger?”

Connor carefully measures out the detergent for a small load, pouring it in and starting it up before turning to survey the space as well. Beside the trash can is a clear plastic bin, its sides gone cloudy from dirt and dust. Inside he can see a trowel, a bag of mulch, thick gloves, shears, a watering can, and a stack of plastic flower pots. There’s more in it too, and he thinks of the hardware shop they pass on the way home.

“Do you garden, Hank?” Connor asks, and Hank follows his gaze to the collection of tools.

“Oh, hell no, my thumb’s about as green as that prick Alder is nice. Must have gotten that stuff from someone on my ex’s side of the family.” Hank rubs at his neck, glancing over at Connor and then away. His voice softens. “You’re not gonna let what he said get to you, are you?”

In truth, Connor had largely put the man and his words from his mind, too used to snide comments to dwell on them longer than necessary. “No, I don’t place any stock in his opinion of androids. I know his feelings come from a place of deep insecurity at being replaced by a being that can perform his job with the same or greater level of care with half the experience.”

“Ooh, burn!” Hank barks, and then tips his head back, laughing. “Next time say that to his face, I’m tired of seeing him look at you like he’s sucked on a Warhead.”

Imagining the look of outrage on Alder’s face if Connor were to say such a thing has him smiling. “I don’t think that would look too good on my assessment, but afterwards perhaps.”

“Oh, pff, you could probably knock Alder out and still pass the assessment.” The confidence with which Hank says it is amusing.

At the back of Connor’s processor, the end of his probationary period has loomed like a spectre, the final assessment of his skills. It was not an original part of his agreement to return to the DPD, but once the official rules had been handed down by Congress, and the local governments had settled their interpretations of things, it was deemed that Connor should be put through a probationary period in order to be formally added to the government’s payroll. Only once he passes will he finally receive his badge and qualify to carry a weapon.

Ostensibly, the assessment is to determine if he’s good enough to continue on the force. While he’d like to think he is, since he was literally made to do his job, he can’t help but wonder if there’s some mis-step he hasn’t noticed. Some crucial part of the job that he can’t perform as well on, that will ultimately cause him to fail.

It has made him hyper aware of his interactions with his colleagues, and now he worries about Alder, about his own suggestion to hire an android. Alder could decide to report that to Fowler as disrespectful behavior. It’s certainly something Amanda wouldn’t have tolerated, and the man reminds him of her quite a bit.

He also can’t help but wonder if his past behavior with the force is being taken into account. If what he and Reed did will hold some sway over his future.

“Hey,” Hank says, nudging him. “Your little light’s spinning. What are you thinking about so hard all of a sudden?”

The tools in the corner of the garage are relatively clean, despite the dirty bin they’re couched in. Connor looks at them, the dull metal gleaming in the dim light. “I’m worried that—” He pauses, can’t seem to force the words from his vocal processor. “I will not pass,” he finishes weakly.

They haven’t spoken of what happened in direct terms in months, and even now Connor hesitates. It makes his processors glitch unpleasantly, and he’s reluctant to remind Hank of it. Of what Connor did. As if Hank could forget it and continue treating him as he always does if Connor just doesn’t bring it up.

“Connor, come on. You’re the best damn detective on the force.” All the amusement drops from Hank’s voice, and he turns to look down at Connor, eyes dark in the dim light. “They’re not gonna kick you out, and if they do, we’ll know it’s bullshit. You do more than most of the people there.”

He’s big, and close in the cramped space with boxes crowding their feet. Barely five inches of distance between them, so easily crossed. Connor wants to reach out and touch the bare arms hanging at Hank’s side, thick with muscle, to feel that constant warmth boiling beneath his skin.

Hank could hold him down so easy.

The sudden thought has Connor reeling back, stepping away, and his heel lands on something soft. He grabs at the washer, trying to stop himself from crushing whatever it is, but he’s rapidly losing his balance. The boxes behind him skitter against each other, banging loudly, and he stumbles further, tipping backwards.

Hank reaches out, and Connor grasps at his elbow as a hand catches him around the side, hand curling across his back, jerking him out of his fall and against Hank’s chest as he struggles to regain his footing. He’s solid, soft, as warm as Connor knew he would be, and Connor pushes away quickly, his thermal regulator ratcheting up.

“Shit! You okay, Connor?” Hank asks, letting Connor pull back, but his hand comes to rest on Connor’s waist. Warmth seems to bloom from the touch, spreading up his chassis in a wave of positive feedback. A bright blue hex code opens before him beneath the components of whiskey.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Connor says, voice too high, all wrong. He recalibrates and says, much more normally, “Thank you.”

“Never seen you so clumsy,” Hank huffs on a laugh, amusement lighting his eyes up. Connor’s pseudo-saliva begins to secrete in excess, and he swallows it down for recycling.

“I had a small glitch with my gyroscope. It should be fine now.” He knows the red blip of his LED gives him away, but he doesn’t care. Not with the sudden, guilty weight attached to the bottom of his thirium pump, trying to drag it through the tangled circuits of his chest. “You should go and make sure Sumo hasn’t stolen that package of hot dogs.”

“Oh, shit! Sumo!” Hank jerks away, tiptoeing back down the path to the door as quick as he can, and Connor is relieved the distraction was enough.

The info boxes fade from his vision and he turns to the rumbling washing machine, pretending to read the dials on the display, until he hears the creak of the door and Hank’s footsteps pounding down the hall. His breath comes out in a shudder and he reminds himself firmly that Hank wouldn’t touch him the same way Reed did. That Hank wouldn’t want to touch him in such a way at all, considering how he let Reed use him.

That Connor shouldn’t want it either. And obviously doesn’t deserve it, if he can’t stop comparing the two of them.

He sets a reminder for himself to switch the laundry over and walks back through the path to join Hank. On the way, his eyes skip over to the bin of gardening tools, and he thinks of the fish in the garden of his mind, frozen and lifeless. The curling trellis of roses, withered and dead.

Any worry that Hank would resume questioning him on his odd behavior is wiped away when he turns into the kitchen and finds ripped plastic littering the floor, and Sumo licking his chops, sniffing at the tile for more.

“Guess it’s, uh, frozen pizza tonight,” Hank says, a hint of frustration in his voice as he bends and picks pieces of plastic off the floor.

“I could—” Connor begins to offer, but Hank is already shaking his head, standing to dump the remains into the trash.

“I got it. No offence, but last time you cooked you used so much garlic I thought my tongue was gonna shrivel,” Hank says wryly, opening the freezer and fishing the frozen disc out.

“I simply followed the recipe,” Connor says defensively. It’s not his fault he can’t properly gauge the taste of a meal.

“Yeah, well, it was a shitty recipe, no offence.” Despite his words, there’s a teasing note to Hank’s voice.

Connor sits at the kitchen table, watching. The house is much cleaner than it was before Connor started living here, and the effort hasn’t been solely Connor’s. He knows Hank has a difficult time doing things occasionally. Even little things, such as throwing away a bottle. Knows it’s not something Hank can help, and so many years of dealing with his depression alone has only made it harder for him.

But Connor helps where he can, and that seems to help Hank find the energy he needs. It’s another small step, keeping the space they inhabit clean, but it’s a step Connor is very proud of Hank for taking, just as his biocomponents seem to fill with helium when Hank opts for a diet soda. Not the healthiest drink choice, but a good step above alcohol.

The anxiety of the moment in the garage dies to a dull simmer beneath his chassis. This is his favorite part of the day, when it’s just the two of them. Hank says something as he unwraps the pizza and tosses it on the pan, and Connor reminds him to allow the oven to preheat. It earns him a short glare, but Hank turns the oven on and sits across from Connor all the same.

It’s nice, it’s peaceful, and for the moment, it’s his.

Evening rolls by on a slow wave that somehow seems too quick even for Connor’s advanced processors. They take Sumo out for a brief walk to do his business, Connor changes the clothes over, and then they sit on the couch and watch the news and whatever other show catches Hank’s eye. Connor internally browses the internet and checks in on the DPD, making sure no disaster has occurred that requires their presence.

He finds himself browsing informational gardening sites, thinking of the tools in the garage, the hardware store they pass by each day. He has the protocols for every CyberLife android stored in his memory, and though he’s only made use of these protocols once in his short life, it makes him hesitate to access them. They aren’t the protocols of companion androids, just the simple directives for maintenance androids used for upkeep, landscaping, and gardening.

He thinks of them guiding his hands and mouth like instinct. The heat on his tongue, the beating pulse.

He pushes it away and focuses instead on the article about how to plant a flower.

Before Hank can begin falling asleep, he heaves himself off the couch and says his good nights, leaving Connor to do as he pleases for the rest of the night. In this case, he opts to turn the lights off and lay down on the couch, preparing himself to go into sleep mode. Not necessary to perform each night, but a good way to pass the time and to keep himself functioning at maximum capacity. It allows his memory files to be compressed for long term storage, and clears the day’s junk data from his processors.

Laying in the dark, he sets an alarm for the morning, and listens to Sumo snuffling over his bed by Hank’s desk before flopping down with a sigh.

“Good night, Sumo,” Connor says, and closes his eyes.

Most nights, his sleep mode is a blank space, an emptiness as his external processes go into low power mode. Hank calling his name, a loud noise, or his proximity sensors could draw him out of it, but otherwise he is unconscious of the world around him, and barely aware of the automated processes as his memories are stored.

Some nights are different. He doesn’t know if it’s deviancy, or the glitches and malfunctions he continues to experience, but sometimes his preconstruction program comes online. Without a prompt, it draws from his memories. And without a guide, it simply draws from his most recent, or most accessed, memories. Sometimes both.

His sleep mode is uninterrupted for most of the night, but slowly his preconstruction program opens, building a room around him, giving the space form from hair-thin lines of code.

There’s no defining features of wherever he is. It’s dark, the floor indistinct but solid. He sees the golden rods that make his preconstructions forming before him, piling from the ground up into a body that stalks towards him with a familiar gate. It doesn’t have a face, or a features of any kind, but Connor knows it’s smiling at him as it tilts its head and gives him a once over.

Connor wants to turn and run. He doesn’t want this thing near him, for those hands to dishevel his clothing and touch his dermal layer, to hear it speak. Yet he stands completely still. There is a red wall spanning his HUD, cutting him off from escape.

_ // DON’T DISRUPT THE INVESTIGATION // _

He can’t move. His programming prevents it. He’s not a deviant, he has to obey, he’s a machine.

There are fingers, cold, reaching up to cup Connor’s cheek like a lover.

_ “Wanna go for one last ride?”  _ It laughs, a sound that echoes through the spaces of a tiled room, and its fingers claw at the front of Connor’s shirt, ripping it open, tearing at the plates of his chest. His clothes are paper, his body a cardboard doll, and Connor remains frozen.

It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. It will be over soon. None of what he feels his real.

It guides him down and Connor folds beneath the wire-frame hands. They are weightless. They are heavy. He can’t exert any pounds of pressure to withstand the burden.

He’s just a machine.

His eyes open in darkness, and he gasps for air he doesn’t need, fear clouding his processor. For a moment he can’t separate the fading preconstruction with reality, and he sits up, chest heaving, half-way to calling Hank’s name in his panic.

Reality asserts itself as he looks around the dark living room. At Sumo, watching with his head on his paws. The TV sitting black and silent and the tick of the kitchen clock. His hand flies to his chest and finds soft cotton.

It wasn’t real. Just an amalgamation of his programs and memories. They’re unpleasant, but nothing dangerous, and after a moment he lays back down, shifting onto his side. The sound of his own breaths unnerve him, and he cups a hand over his mouth, stifling them, working to control it until they’re quiet again.

It doesn’t work. His biocomponents are reacting to his stress level, which is exceedingly high, and he thinks momentarily of going to Hank’s room, but he dismisses it before he can get any further. There’s no need to wake Hank, and nothing the man could do anyways. Better not to disturb him.

When his respiration refuses to ease he settles for the next best thing and pulls the collar of the hoodie over the bridge of the nose. It’s warm, almost stuffy inside, and the familiar scent settles in his nose and on his tongue.

 

 

-

 

The days pass in relative peace, except for the murders, break-ins, and assaults that fill their hours. His assessment is approaching, set for the end of May, six months from when he started back with the DPD, and the reminder springs upon him at random, like an alarm he forgot he set.

He tries not to dwell too hard on it, but his processors are more than capable of multi-tasking, preconstructing possible conversations about his behavior or work ethic even as he examines crime scenes or talks to witnesses. His reports, already detailed and thorough accounts of crime scenes and witness statements, triple in length. He makes sure to include even minute details that could be relevant and explains his thought processes carefully when concluding case notes.

It makes Hank groan to see it, and he never fails to tell Connor to take it down a notch, but that is not an option. He’s going to do everything possible to make sure Fowler has no reason to say he’s unfit to continue with the DPD.

He tries to take on more of the investigative work as well, and that works for a while, until Hank catches on that it’s in an effort to improve his chances on the assessment. It means that Hank insists on talking to one of their witnesses himself, with a glare at Connor.

“We’re partners, and you may be faster and better than me, but we still share the responsibility. Chill the fuck out, Connor, you’re not getting kicked out just because you’re not a one-man investigative machine.” Hank shakes his head as they approach the witness’ house, a two story, narrow home with an overgrown front yard.

“Technically speaking, I am a one-man investigative machine,” Connor says, following Hank up to the front steps. They creak beneath their weight, the white paint flaking and faded beneath the sun. “But if you insist, of course you can speak to Ms. Darling and her daughter. She did seem quite taken by you over the phone.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Hank grouses, knocking roughly on the door, shaking it in its frame.

It had been interesting to listen to their conversation to begin with. Ms. Darling, the mother of the girl who found the dead android, Norton, beneath the bridge, became quite flirty the longer it went on as Hank tried to set up a time to come get a statement. Hank leaned into it, complimenting her, saying he was eager to hear what she had to say and put a face to that beautiful voice.

Connor’s amusement at Hank’s flustered expression went sour when Hank reciprocated, and he turned back to his computer and tuned the conversation out. It wasn’t professional to flirt like that, and could reflect badly on Connor’s assessment. Even now, as the woman answers the door, brown hair pulled back in a neat bun, wearing a green sundress, Connor has to tamp that annoyance down, especially when she spots Hank and smiles widely, opening the door further.

“You must be Lieutenant Anderson,” she says, and then her eyes alight on Connor, darting to his LED, and her smile dims. “Oh. Uh, and you are?” Her voice is a short story about a town lottery, honey brown hexadecimal code.

“Detective Connor,” he says simply.

She stares for a moment blankly before seeming to catch herself, and gestures them both in. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting two of you. I thought it would just be Lieutenant Anderson here.”

“I’m his partner,” Connor says, sharper than he intends, as they pass into a small foyer. His social relations program offers up further options to make up for his shortness with her, but he ignores them. They should keep this professional, after all.

“Yeah, normally Connor here asks the questions, but I couldn’t help stealing his place,” Hank says, smiling down at her, almost smirking. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Ms. Darling returns the smile, fingers coming up to brush her neck. “No, not at all. Glad we could help, you know?”

She leads them into her sitting room where her daughter, a little brown-haired, brown-eyed girl in overalls, is sitting on the couch. Hank wastes little time getting to the heart of the matter. It’s a relief that he sticks to the relevant questions, barely speaking to Ms. Darling, so Connor doesn’t have to listen to the two of them flirt back and forth. The little girl is bright and forthcoming, answering everything earnestly, and Hank is halfway through the list of questions they’d talked about when he receives a message on his internal communication system.

_ // From: Gavin Reed //  
_ _ // Hey when u get back can u meet me out behind the station? Wanted to ask u smthn // _

The pressure in Connor’s thirium pump spikes. He stares at the words on his HUD. At the sender. His visual input narrows to the message.

Reed wants to talk to him. His processor is racing but there’s no coherent thought passing through them.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the message, until he realizes Hank is trying to get his attention. He stands abruptly and tries to tell Hank he has to go check on something, but he can’t hear himself, can’t hear anything. He’s barely aware of walking back through the house, closing the front door behind him, and walking down the front steps. He feels off balance, as if a touch could send him sprawling to the pavement.

Something in his chest winds tighter and tighter the longer he stares at the request. Reed wants to meet him somewhere semi-private, wants to ask him something. There are a lot of things Reed could want from him, a lot of things he could do to Connor

The sidewalk is nearly empty, which is good, because Connor can’t focus on anything but getting to Hank’s car. It’s parked down the street at the curb, and he watches it approach far too slowly through the CyberLife Sans. Finally his hand closes around the door handle, but it’s locked. He just needs to be alone for a moment, to calm himself down, to quit overreacting to a simple message.

His reflection in the window is impassive, blank. It’s quiet out here, not even the sound of passing cars or the wind through the trees. His LED is a golden wheel at his temple.

There’s nothing strange about it. It’s bound for two coworkers to talk sometimes. Maybe the message wasn’t even meant for Connor. Maybe he intended to contact someone else and he had Connor’s serial number programmed into his phone and pushed it on accident. Statistically, there’s always a chance for unlikely events to take place. This could be one of those events.

He pulls on the door handle again. It’s still locked. Spring is here but his thirium is slush in his biocomponents.

Fowler never mentioned whether he spoke to Reed, but Connor always assumed so, considering Reed never approaches him at work or even makes sneering comments about him when he’s around. Not that Connor would complain about the peace, but perhaps it was only because Fowler had let Reed know what an overreaction Connor had to him. It’s past time for Connor to stop getting so worked up over Reed and what happened.

The door handle creeks under his insistent tugging, and he knows he should stop, that pulling on it is illogical because he has established it is locked.

Despite what Hank may think, what they did was brief and inconsequential. Connor wasn’t the machine he thought he was at the time, so if he was truly hurt like Hank says, he should have deviated sooner, deviated in an attempt to stop Reed. He didn’t. Because in the end, it wasn’t anything monumental or horrendous, like some androids went through when they deviated. It was just sex.

Seeing Reed’s message should be no more startling than seeing a message from any other coworker. He needs to calm down.

He takes several deep breaths, trying to force his system to find its equilibrium again. To slow the thud of his thirium pump against his chassis, recalibrate his audio processors, and force himself to let go of the car door. His fingers slowly open. He looks past his reflection, to the interior of the car. The red faux-leather car seats are wrinkled and worn, cracked and showing the white padding beneath in places. In the middle of the dashboard is a little figure of a woman in a hula skirt, the top of her plastic hair and arms bleached from the sun. There are crumbs and a few empty fast food cups in the floorboard, which Hank has promised to throw out but not gotten around to yet.

He gets in this car with Hank and goes to the job they have together every day. Hank punched Reed in the face for Connor, even though he didn’t have to. Even though Connor was doing it for the sake of his mission, Hank said he wouldn’t let Reed touch him again, and Connor trusts Hank more than anything. Neither of them should play into Connor’s malfunction, but it finally eases the twisting pressure in his chest.

“Connor!” His head snaps up, and he sees Hank jogging down the sidewalk towards him, frowning heavily. It comes up automatically—his stress level is 58%. Connor closes it quickly. “Hey, Connor, you alright? What the hell happened?” He slows to a stop, panting lightly, putting a hand out to lean against the car.

“I’m sorry, Hank. I was having a software glitch with my audio processors and needed to run a diagnostic.” He’s lucky Hank is on the wrong side to see his temple, and keeps his face turned away just so to hide the glow.

“Oh, shit. You got it sorted out? We need to take you somewhere for that?” His brows crease in worry, eyes roving Connor’s face as if he could see the glitch if he looked hard enough.

“I have it under control. It should be fine soon,” Connor says. He feels bad for lying, but not bad enough to tell the truth. He’d rather not talk about Reed, and if he mentions it, Hank may see it as a reason to confront the detective. He can preconstrunct dozens of possible outcomes of that scenario, and most of them end with Reed reporting to Fowler about being harassed over nothing more than an innocent text, which would reflect badly on his upcoming assessment and on Hank as well. Better to let this lie. “Did you get everything from Ms. Darling and her daughter?”

“Oh, yeah. Took some notes on my phone so I wouldn’t forget,” he says, stepping away, going around the car. “Guess we should head back and put in a report.”

“No,” Connor says, surprising himself and, from Hank’s raised brows over the top of the car, his partner as well. “There’s no need to take an extra trip to the station. We can go home now.”

Hank’s eyebrows climb even higher as he unlocks the car door and climbs inside. Connor follows, and when the doors are shut Hank looks at him again. “I’m surprised. Not like you to want to head home early.”

“We have already done everything we can for the day. It would be a waste to return to the station only to leave so soon after,” he reasons. He buckles his seatbelt with stiff fingers.

Hank taps the steering wheel for a moment in thought, then shrugs and cranks the car. It shudders into life with a dull roar. “Well, yeah, but normally you don’t give a fuck about that. Not that I’m complaining.” He looks over his shoulder to check the road before pulling away from the curb. “You know, if you’re feeling sick, or whatever the android equivalent is with those glitches, you could just say so.”

“I suppose,” Connor says vaguely, digging his coin from his pocket and busying himself with the soothing motions of running it over his knuckles.

The car noses gradually towards home in the thickening traffic, and with each mile the knot of his circuits loosens and his breath comes a little easier. Hopefully Reed won’t make a special note of his absence—or Fowler for that matter. It’s very close to the end of their shift, and they’re not required to be at the station for shift change, but the surge of anxiety is quelled by the relief that he won’t have to potentially encounter a Reed who is waiting to speak to him.

On the way, he spots the hardware store again with its plants cluttering the front walk and soaking up the slowly sinking sun. Their leaves and petals glisten, the sidewalk dark at their feet. The roses are still there, the little shoots bare and so plain, nothing like the blooms around them.

“You wanna go?” Hank asks, startling him out of his observations. Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey and glowing blue jumps across his vision.

“What?”

Nodding out the window, at the shop, he says, “You look at it every time we pass by. What do you say?”

He feels hot, all of a sudden. Had Hank noticed him looking all those times? Sometimes he underestimates how perceptive Hank is. “Oh, no, I’m just admiring the flowers,” Connor says quickly, looking forward again. The heat settles just beneath his ribs, his core rising in temperature at the thought of Hank watching him. He stares at the info boxes until they fade from his HUD.

They get home with no trouble and Sumo is impatient at the door, trying to push past them out into the twilight. It brings a smile of contentment to Connor’s face while Hank grouches.

“Sumo, goddammit, move, please,” Hank says, nudging Sumo back as he tries to remove his jacket while Connor gets the rest of the way in.

“I believe he’s overdue for a walk,” Connor says, stripping his own coat off and hanging it next to Hank’s. He grabs the leash where it hangs on the coat rack, and immediately Sumo jumps up, giving a soft, heavy bark as his big paws land on Connor’s chest.

Sumo’s own info box comes up. A maple syrup recipe and burnt umber. It’s such a pleasing combination, and he ruffles Sumo’s ruff and scratches under his collar in delight. It’s rare he gets to see it, because Sumo is generally a quiet dog, and he likes knowing—or at least believing—that the dog is communicating to him directly.

“Get down!” Hank barks, and as soon as Connor hooks the leash to his collar, he does, staring at the door, fluffy tail batting at their legs.

“Would you like to come with us, Hank?” Connor asks, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “Walking has many benefits—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the spiel. Increased cardiovascular fitness, reduced risk of something, improved whatever, yada, yada.” Heaving a sigh, Hank grabs the keys and phone he’d just dropped on a side table and stuffs them back in his pockets. “Sure, why not.” It’s just a walk, nothing tremendous, but Connor smiles widely, doubly pleased. Hank looks at him for a moment, then away, rubbing his face, mumbling, “It’s not that big a deal, damn Connor.”

They open the front door onto the growing dusk, and Sumo tugs Connor outside, throwing his bulk down the steps and stopping right at the bottom to lift his leg. Then he continues on much more patiently, and Connor and Hank follow, turning down the front sidewalk.

The sky is streaked in orange and pink, the houses around them shadowed in blue and purple. It’s such a strange contrast, so beautiful, and one Connor has yet to tire of seeing.

“Do you enjoy the sunset, Hank?” Connor asks, and Hank looks up from watching Sumo sniff at a mailbox to give a brief glance around at the sky.

“Yeah, guess I do,” Hank says, and then he looks around again, slower. “Don’t really get a lot of time to appreciate it, but it is pretty.” His face is shadowed too in the color of bruises, but his eyes seem bright, faded blue reflecting the dying light and turning them luminous. He inhales deeply, tilting his face towards the sun, like a flower seeking warmth, and Connor’s processes jump into overdrive, slowing the moment down.

He gets to see Hank in many settings, but this is a rare one. The deep shadows, the bright of his eyes, the relaxed slope of his wide shoulders, the warmth radiating from his skin. With the sun going down, it’s growing a little chilly, and he spares a thought for his coat. He should have kept it on, but he’d been swept up in Sumo’s excitement, and he can feel his temperature regulator rising to compensate.

He lets his processors wind down, lets the moment pick back up, and Hank says, “What about you, Connor?”

He nods, letting Sumo pull him further down the sidewalk, stopping intermittently to explore the edges of the yards they pass, but tugging him back when he tries to trespass. “I’ve seen 170 sunsets since my activation, but I couldn’t truly appreciate them until I became a deviant. I find it interesting.”

“Yeah? I mean, they’re pretty, but what’s so interesting about them?”

“Each one is as unique as a person, even if they may look similar at first. I enjoy thinking of the possibilities—perhaps it’s a result of my predictive software, but I can’t help contemplate all of the things that have led me up to this moment, where I am viewing this exact permutation of the earth rotating and the clouds in a state of cirrostratus.” Connor glances up at the sky again, the orange deepening into violet. “Even the slightest change may have taken me somewhere else. If I had poured your whiskey out the night we met instead of buying you another drink, perhaps I would be viewing this very sunset from the depths of an android junkyard.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” Hank says, shooting him a pinched look. It makes his thirium pump beat harder.

“I don’t mean to be morbid. I’m glad I’m here, with you,” Connor says earnestly. “Of all the possibilities, this is better than any preconstruction my system could have produced.” Before, he’d hoped Fisk, the RF700 that had captured him, would destroy this body and this Connor, and let the next RK800 take over. Before Hank invited Connor into his home, he’d been ready to let CyberLife have him again, just to scrub himself of the glitches and the malfunctions. Now he’s glad he didn’t. Even if they still happen sometimes, even if Reed wants to talk to him for some reason, it’s not enough to make him regret how things have turned out.

“Oh,” Hank says, temperature rising significantly, ducking his head. After a long moment of quiet, filled with the sound of their footsteps and cars passing, he says, haltingly, “I’m glad too. That you’re here. With me. That we’re here together. More than I expected a year ago, you know.”

It’s a sobering thought. “I know.”

“Would you look at that,” Hank says, suddenly hushed, and Connor follows his line of sight.

On the other side of the road, sitting on the front steps of a house in the glow of the porch light, are two people, their features cast in indistinct shadow. There’s a dull red pinpoint of light in one of their hands, lowering from their mouth to tap ashes into a tray on the step next to them. The other person turns their head slightly towards them, and Connor sees the bright blue ring at their temple. Between them, their hands intertwined tightly.

“Didn’t know we had other androids in the neighborhood,” Hank whispers, raising his hand slightly in greeting. The human’s head tips in a nod, and the android waves before looking back at their partner.

Connor finally looks away from them, nodding. “An android and human couple, at that.” An unusual sight. He’s seen them, of course—impossible not to in their line of work. They encounter humans and androids and those close to them, and sometimes that includes couples. But it’s somehow strange to see this couple in the same neighborhood as him, just down the street. As if he’d forgotten that there are humans and android pairs whose lives don’t end in some kind of tragedy.

When they reach the end of the street, Sumo pauses before turning around, apparently ready to head back. It takes them right past the couple, still sitting on the stoop. Connor can’t resist another glance at their still clasped hands, nearly hidden in the darkness.

The sun has almost completely disappeared, and a chill has set into his body, though Hank seems relatively unaffected. Ever since Connor deviated, he has been more susceptible to the cold, more uncomfortable by the way it cools his thirium and bites at his components. He can regulate his temperature, but it’s inefficient to turn it up so high, as it consumes more thirium, and cool temperatures don’t actually hurt him.

He looks down at their hands, the inches of space separating them, and the mild warmth his sensors pick up just beyond his reach. Hank is a font of heat, but he has shared that comfort less and less in the months since Connor returned to work. The casual touches are still there, but he doesn’t draw Connor close to him as he did. Connor misses it.

His temperature is low, and he wants to take Hank’s hand, cup their palms together, feel the warm press of fingers across the back of his hand.

 

-

 

The house is quiet so late at night, and Connor’s audio processors are tuned for the slightest indication of Hank waking up and shuffling to the bathroom. There is nothing.

Connor stands before the sink, the yellowish light of the bathroom casting dull shadows in the corners. It flickers every now and then, and Connor absently notes that a replacement bulb is in order. In the mirror, between the curling sticky notes, he can see himself from the sternum up—the soft, gray hoodie with its faded screen print; the pale column of his neck; his sculpted face; his meticulously textured skin, dotted with freckles and a few moles; the dark strands that fall across his forehead; his wide brown eyes. It culminates in an approachable face, young but not too young, almost innocent, or naive looking.

Is that what attracted Reed to him?

The memories are easily accessible, perfectly preserved in his hard drive. He has gone over them only a few times, because they are unpleasant, and for hours afterwards his sensors light up with the ghost of a touch and he hears those voices ringing through his head. He doesn’t access them fully now, but they’re at the forefront of his active memory recall, details flitting across his mind without prompting.

He recalls the arousal, the stress level at 95%, the bpm of Reed’s pulse on his tongue, the dilation of his pupils when he saw the thirium on Connor’s body from where the android, Gordon, had cut him in their scuffle. What had pushed Reed over the edge and made him decide to press Connor to his knees?

Was it simple attraction to a beautiful body that couldn’t say no? Was it anger, a punishment for being an android?

He reaches up, pressing two fingers to his LED, and slowly, the skin melts away from his face. He watches it draw back in the mirror in glowing blue lines, revealing the white plastic of his chassis, the lines of his plates, and the serial number stamped over the slope of his left brow. The dark gray plastic beneath his cheeks and dipping over his chin give him some contour, allowing techs to more easily find the seams, but it only adds to the alien features of his body.

Like this, it’s easier to remove the hoodie and look at his body beneath. He can pretend Reed never touched this part of him. That his synthetic skin was some sort of protective layer. In the mirror, he’s too smooth, too hairless, and his eyes seem so much smaller in his shiny plastic skull.

Without this illusory layer of humanity, would Reed still have wanted to have sex with him?

His core temperature drops at the thought of Reed still holding an interest in his body like this, though he highly doubts it.

Slowly, carefully, he runs the pads of his fingers in a line down his chest, ending at the circle of his thirium pump regulator. His own fingers feel strange against his chassis—polished and featureless. Nothing like Reed’s hands, rough and gripping at his regulator, tearing it from his chest. His autonomous systems demanding he feel pleasure through the imminent shutdown.

His fingers tremble minutely.

He has control of those systems now. He doesn’t have to have sex if he doesn’t want to, and nothing Reed or anyone else does could make those autonomous systems activate without his permission now. If he were to have sex again, it would be by his choice, and with complete control over his body.

It’s a startling thought. Until now, he hadn’t ever contemplated having sex again, and the first partner of choice that presents itself is Hank. He dismisses that quickly, though. But there is no one else he knows he would ever feel comfortable sharing his body with like that.

Chris Miller is a good man, and hasn’t grown any less friendly since the revolution, but he is also married. Tina Chen is polite enough when she’s not in Gavin’s company, but he doesn’t feel any kind of camaraderie towards her. There are other people he sees on a daily basis—Brown, Person, Headley, Birch, Larch, Collins—but they are not as friendly towards Connor, at least not at the moment.

There are androids he’s met—Markus, Josh, North, Simon, and others through his cases. Their feelings on him vary from friendliness to outright distrust, but Connor’s too aware of the possibility of compromising their leadership to hang around them more than absolutely necessary.

Ultimately, if he had to choose a partner, no one appeals to him the way Hank does, and not only is Hank out of the question, Connor’s not sure he would feel comfortable engaging in sex again. It would be a disservice to anyone he was with, after all. Even without his skin, alone in the confines of Hank’s bathroom, all he can think of is Reed’s hands on him. His touch, his glare, his words like a physical blow to his thirium pump, telling him over and over  _ You look so good fucked up. _

He cuts off the active memory recall.

The likelihood of him being able to engage in sex without experiencing these glitches is less than 15%, and the thought does not appeal to him. However, as he understands it, sex is an expected factor in most relationships. Therefore, Connor is not fit for a relationship. He would not want to disappoint a potential partner, especially not if that partner were Hank.

His optics feel too hot and he doesn’t realize his hand is clenched around the rim of the sink until he hears the squeak of plastic on porcelain. He lets go abruptly. He should end this line of inquiry because it is getting him nowhere.

Still, he stands for a few moments longer, watching his naked hand brush over his regulator, where Reed twice yanked it out. Across his shoulders, where Reed once bit him. Over his lips, where Reed once fucked him. He touches the pale lines of his body, and it becomes harder and harder to pretend that the synthetic layer of his skin protected him at all.

A noise jolts him from his contemplation, a loud cough, and he jerks around, convinced for a moment that someone is in here with him. But the door is closed, and he comes back to himself, remembering that he turned his audio processors up to warn him. He can hear Hank sitting up, the slight creak of mattress springs.

He touches his temple, the skin melting back across his body, already moving to the door. He flicks the light off as he leaves, moving swiftly down the hall as he hears sluggish footsteps. By the time he’s on the couch, Hank’s bedroom door is squeaking open near-silently, and Connor’s thirium pump is pounding loudly, nearly drowning it out.

There’s the flick of the light switch and then a gruff, “Huh.” Connor sucks in a breath as he realizes he left the hoodie draped over the sink edge, forgotten in his haste. His hands come up, clutching each other pointlessly over his chest. There’s no one to see him in the dark.

Letting his audio processors fall back to base levels, he stares at the ceiling, squeezing his fingers, listening. Eventually, the bathroom door opens and he hears Hank shuffling out, across the hall, back into his room. Connor sits up, staring over the back of the couch for a moment, before standing and moving slowly down the hall. Hank left the light on in the bathroom, but the hoodie isn’t on the sink anymore—it’s been hung up on the towel rack, out of the way, and Connor feels a rush of affection for the man.

He contemplates leaving it there. Hank will know he was up late if it’s gone in the morning, and might question him on it. Not that he couldn’t think of any number of reasons for being awake and in the bathroom, but he doesn’t like lying to Hank.

He feels too exposed, one hand held tight over his pump regulator as if it could pop out without warning. His few shirts are in Hank’s room, in his closet, so he fetches the hoodie from the towel rack and pulls it over his head, and the residual warmth from his body seeps into his chassis. He already feels better. Smoothing a hand down the front, he returns to the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop me a comment and let me know what you think~ See you Saturday!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna thank Lt and Kai and everyone else in the cum dump just cause they always support me and let me talk about writing this fic so much! I also wanna thank everyone who left a comment on the first chapter, and all my returning readers who are kind enough to give this sequel a go. Thank you so much!
> 
> This chapter is quite a bit shorter than the first one I think lol, but we're still a little bit in setup territory!

**** The next day is hectic. The address filed with New Jericho for Charlize, the ST300’s, address, is empty, and has been for several days given the mail piling up in the mailbox. Ms. Darling’s daughter’s description of the woman at the crime scene revealed that the ST300 had retained severe facial damage to her left occipital plates, so they call in at repair places around the city and at New Jericho itself to see if any androids have come in with such damage. When none prove fruitful, they finally put out a BOLO. Almost immediately an officer calls in a sighting near an abandoned house on the corner of Washington and St. Ann.

When they arrive, Connor is sure the ST300 is hiding out there, and his theory solidifies when he finds traces of thirium belonging to an ST300 on the property. They knock on the rickety front door politely, and Hank calls, “This is the DPD police, we need to talk to you, Charlize.” From the side of the house comes the sound of shattering glass. Hank and Connor look at each other.

“Don’t—”

Connor takes off at a sprint. He turns the corner of the house in time to see the ST300 in a puffy green jacket dropping down onto the busy street on the other side of the fence surrounding the property. Connor leaps at the fence, scaling quickly, and from the top he can see the android’s long blonde hair whipping behind her as she shoves through the crowd in the direction of Ferndale station. It’s mid-day and the streets are busy.

His processors jump into overdrive, calculating his options. If he doesn’t give chase, the likelihood of them finding her a second time are much slimmer.

“Connor!” Hank calls behind him. “You don’t even have a gun! Get back here!”

Connor ignores him, ignores the memory of Hank pulling him down from another fence, telling him not to chase two deviants—two androids across the automated freeway. He feels the impact of hitting the concrete in his knees and is off like a shot into the closing wake of people the android leaves behind.

“DPD! We just want to talk!” he calls after her. He sees her platinum hair turn, but she doesn’t slow as she whips around a corner, knocking three people to the concrete.

Connor leaps over them seconds later and has to pause as he loses sight—but then he hears a shout and sees she’s crossed the road. He takes off again as she disappears between two buildings. His processors are still in overdrive, computing her possible routes and destinations and how best to intercept.

“Wait! This is not an arrest! We need to talk to you!” he shouts as he reaches the mouth of the alley. She’s almost at the other end, the bright light of day illuminating pedestrians passing on the sidewalk and a line of cars stopped in the street. She shoots out of the alley, sending people stumbling back with sharp cries, and slides across the hood of a car and into the road.

“Sorry! DPD!” he warns as he comes out next, planting a hand on the hood of the car and vaulting after her. She’s running full tilt down the street between the still line of traffic, and she glances back once. He catches sight of broken plastic, sparking blue, and then she curves between two cars and back onto the sidewalk.

They’re nearing the train station, and he calculates that she intends to lose him there. He pulls up a map of the city, analyzes the routes and outgoing trains, and when the ST300 takes another corner Connor shoots past it, not even pausing. She’s likely accessing the same schedule Connor is, she knows she’ll have to double back to reach it in time for the next departing train, and Connor sends a message to Hank letting him know where to meet.

He still has to sprint to reach it first, shoving through people and shouting, “DPD coming through!” at regular intervals to warn people.

He gets there just in time, pounding up the stairs to the platform, and plows into her before she can board the green line, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The people part around them, shouting in surprise, and before the ST300 can regain her footing, Connor climbs quickly to his feet, raising his hands, and says, calmly, “You are not under arrest. You are not a suspect. We just need a statement.”

She looks up at him, hair falling around her face, and finally Connor can see what he caught a glimpse of. Her left eye is gone, plastic cracked from hairline to chin, and he can see the glowing fire of her central processor beneath. Her LED is red as well, and her other eye is a pale blue, staring up at him fearfully. Slowly, Connor crouches, keeping his hands in view, all too aware of the people around them, watching, the click of phone cameras going off.

_ Click. Click. Click. _

He shakes it off and says, softly, “We want to help. We need to know what happened.”

It’s a tense moment, where Connor can only hope she doesn’t try to bolt again, because forcing her to come with him would require placing her under arrest and charging her. But finally, she nods, and says softly, “I’m not in trouble?” It brings to Connor’s processors pictures of alpacas and a hex code for a deep purple.

“No. You’re a victim and a witness, the evidence supports that. We just need your side of what’s happened.”

She nods slowly, warily. “Okay.”

Connor lets his hands fall with relief, reaching down to help her up. The crowd around them gradually begins to move away, and when Hank finally catches up, the ST300 allows them to walk with her down to Hank’s car and drive her back to her home while they talk.

Her story is almost exactly as Connor had figured. She’d been walking with Norton, an android she’d worked with before the revolution. When they were attacked, she was stabbed in the eye in the struggle. The shock of the damage had scared her, and she’d frozen, unable to fight back and try to save Norton. Their attacker ran away after that, and once she realized Norton was hurt far worse, she tried to wake him up. It was too late. He was gone. She’d been too afraid to leave him, too afraid to call for help from the police and be blamed for the attack, or not taken seriously. When the girl discovered her and Norton, she ran and hid because she didn’t know what else to do.

New Jericho is full of stories of androids being framed for murder, or being arrested for suspicious behavior. Of police not taking their concerns seriously or blaming them. It disturbs Connor to hear these, to know that other districts are not so tight with their enforcement of the new laws. He’s lucky to have ended up at Central Station, and for Fowler to be so on top of things. He’s works them hard, but Connor wouldn’t have it any other way if it means he can continue helping androids like Charlize see justice done.

She’s willing to share her memory of the attacker, and it only confirms what Hank and Connor had already been sure of. James Dowager is going to trial.

The moment they’re alone as they head to Hank’s car, calling it a day after the excitement of running around and getting what they needed, Hank rounds on Connor with a glare. “Can you not run off like that every chance you get? Damn near gave me a heart attack! You don’t even have a gun, Connor!”

Connor stares at Hank over the top of the car, taken aback. “I don’t need a gun, Hank, and I certainly didn’t need one today,” Connor says, annoyed despite knowing Hank is only coming from a place of concern.

“You didn’t know that! For all you know, she could have been the murderer!” Hank spits, dropping into the car angrily, making the whole thing shake.

Connor follows much more slowly, keeping his head turned away so the stress meter won’t fill his vision. “The evidence doesn’t support that, and you know it, Lieutenant. You also know that I’m not allowed a weapon until I pass my assessment, but I won’t allow that to hinder my job performance.”

Hank says nothing for a moment, but Connor doesn’t have look to know Hank is rolling his eyes in exasperation. “I just want you to be more careful, damn,” Hank bites, sarcastic. “Excuse me for being worried.”

There’s no point in the petty argument. He can’t have a gun, and it irritates Connor that in more dangerous situations he’s expected to fall back and allow Hank to deal with them. It grates against the one objective that holds steady at the top of his task menu.

_ // Protect Hank // _

It’s not Hank’s fault, and it’s not Connor’s either. It’s just how the chips have fallen with the new laws. So he takes a breath, examining his social relations program’s suggestions, and says, “I’m sorry, Hank. I don’t want you to worry, but I want you to trust me, too. I knew I could catch her without either of us coming to harm.”

Hank says nothing, just pulls out of the parking lot. They’ve reached an impasse. It’s fine, of course, they won’t agree on everything, but Connor’s not fragile like a human. He can be shot and keep going, provided it’s not in a vital biocomponent. Anything that breaks can be repaired or replaced within a matter of hours or days, depending on the severity of the damage. When a human is shot, it takes much longer for them to recover. Even when Hank was stabbed in the leg last year, a relatively non-lethal wound, it had taken weeks for him to be able to return to work.

It’s not until they’re halfway home that Hank sighs and says, grudgingly, “Sorry.” Connor looks to him finally, and his stress level is much lower than expected. He can feel his own servos relaxing minutely.

“Thank you.” He certainly hadn’t expected Hank to apologize so quickly, or at all, and he smiles to himself.

“Can’t wait for this damn evaluation so they’ll finally treat you like one of us. It’s fucking annoying,” Hank mutters.

“Agreed,” Connor says, and that’s that.

Their conversation gradually turns to the topic of the ST300, Charlize, and her statement about what happened beneath the bridge. He thinks about Hank’s words. Hank had been right—she’d frozen in fear and indecision, unable to fight their attacker, unable to get help, overwhelmed by all the possible negative outcomes. He wonders if she regrets it. If she wishes she’d fought back harder. If she knows that would have likely led to her own death, too.

Closing the Norton case and the many new cases that continually pour in keeps his mind off of Reed and his upcoming assessment for the next few days, especially when he doesn’t get another text. He does, however, get a message from Markus thanking him for identifying Norton and helping to get his remains returned to New Jericho so they can be held for his fiduciary. He sends a similar message each time an android’s body is returned to them, and though Connor is merely doing his job, seeing them gives him a sense of satisfaction.

It’s not much, but it feels good to be able to do at least something to make up for his role as the deviant hunter. Most of the androids he encounters in close settings don’t usually recognize him right away for what he did, which is lucky, because the few who do tend to close up, distrust radiating from every synthetic pore. It’s not ideal, but maybe by showing he’s trying to help, that he’s on their side, it will alleviate some of his reputation.

His pride in a job well done, however, is tempered by Markus’ next message.

_ // I’ve heard troubling news that you chased an android through the city a few days ago. That you subdued her rather harshly. // _

It doesn’t take Connor’s advanced processors to realize where Markus’ concern stems from. The former deviant hunter seen hounding an android through the streets of Detroit, tackling her to the ground, has spread quickly, it seems.

For a moment, Connor hesitates on his answer, wondering if Markus will really believe him, but he pushes the thought away. Markus has shown him nothing but faith and Connor should return the favor, not jump to the worst possible conclusions.

He can’t give out information on the case—not even to the leader of Jericho. It takes him far too long to compose his next message, and he can only hope Markus puts it down to Connor being busy, and not formulating a lie.

_ // She was not harmed. She came willingly when I caught up to her, and she’s not in trouble. // _

Markus’ next message takes just as long, if not longer than Connor’s. As he waits for it, he looks over at Hank’s desk, to the dessicated bonsai in its pot. The dry bark and damp soil that Hank has recently begun to water, as if it will bring the small tree back to life. Then the message comes in and Connor stills at his desk.

_ // I know you’re only doing your job, but please consider how this looks. We need to show a united front. Chasing your fellow androids down, especially when they’re apparently not in trouble, could reflect very badly on us, Connor. Just be more careful next time, please. // _

Connor’s hands flex and he stares at the message, taking a deep, automated breath. His stress level rises, and he has clear it from his HUD to keep it from climbing. He knows how it looks, but he couldn’t let Charlize go. It would possibly mean allowing her to become a suspect, rather than a witness, and having a murder pinned on an android would look even worse after Markus’ peaceful protests.

Worse than the former deviant hunter chasing an android? He couldn’t say, and he can’t explain as such to Markus. All he can do is wait for the frustration buzzing beneath his chassis to fade.

From there, his sense of consternation returns, and it isn’t at all helped by how Reed’s desk sits in eyeline with Connor’s. All he has to do is glance over the top of his terminal and he can see the man at his desk and the stress meter indicated by micro-expressions, breathing rate, pupil dilation, and a multitude of other indicators his system flags automatically. He can’t help but keep tabs.

Maybe Reed’s message was meant for someone else. Reed hasn’t tried to approach him about it, hasn’t sent a follow-up, and generally doesn’t give any indication that he wants to speak to Connor. He clings to that thought. It was a mistake.

The only time Reed’s stress ever rises above 50% is when he looks in Connor’s direction and their eyes meet. It jumps from the low thirities and Connor ducks his gaze back to his terminal, breath caught in his artificial lungs.

“Hey, Connor,” Hank says from his desk.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Connor looks over to him, eager to put Reed from his mind. The man takes up too much space in his processor when he should be focused on work.

“You mind grabbing my phone from the car? My notes about Ms. Darling and her kid’s statement are on it, I forgot to type them up,” he says sheepishly.

“You can’t retrieve it yourself?” Connor asks, eyebrow raising slightly.

“Aw, come on, be a pal. I just sat down with my coffee, don’t make me go all the way outside just to get my phone.” He shoots Connor a pleading look, raising his still steaming cup as if that should be enough to convince Connor he shouldn’t move.

He pretends to consider it, pursing his lips in thought. “I suppose I could retrieve it for you, if you agree to clean your garage out this weekend. It’s quite cramped in there.”

“What? All that for just my phone? You’re faster than me, it’ll take you like five minutes tops,” Hank says, disbelief coloring his tone.

Connor bites back on a smirk. “I would be happy to help, of course. But you have put it off for quite a while now.”

“Come one, Connor. Five minutes is not a fair trade.”

“Then I guess you can retrieve your phone yourself.” Connor returns to his terminal, reaching a hand out to interface, slow enough for Hank to interrupt and anticipating it.

Hank huffs, shaking his head and muttering beneath his breath, before saying, “Say next weekend and it’s a deal.”

Nodding, Connor stands, taking the keys that Hank holds out for him. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, grumpy. “Why did I agree to that? Could have just gone and got them for me.” He takes a sip of his coffee, frowning into it as if it’s wronged him. It’s somehow endearing and Connor forces himself to turn away.

Connor intends to hold Hank to it, too. It will be good to clear out some of the junk, much like cleaning up the living spaces and keeping them clean has helped improve Hank’s mental state bit by bit. It’s not a perfect cure, but it’s a positive change, and he’s looking forward to what Hank might share about the items he’s collected over the years.

The parking lot is full of cars and empty of people as the day gets started, a light chill to the air that will be gone by the time the sun is fully in the sky. With his coat on, he barely feels it as he finds Hank’s car, parked just within the lines in the corner of the lot.

The phone is sitting in the cupholder and he leans into the open door, scooping it out and closing the door behind him as he returns to the station. He interfaces with it as he walks, downloading the notes Hank had kept, and is amused to see the many textual shorthands filling it.

“Hey, uh, tincan,” a voice calls across the lot, and Connor slows as a color and information box spreads across his HUD. The manufacturer of the precinct’s nitrile gloves. Red, red,  _ red. _

He looks up, servos lagging, hoping for a malfunction. That his memory files are calling up previous encounters, that the voice recognition and the glitch that shows him these bits of information and hex codes are wrong.

Reed is standing by the door into the station, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, watching Connor with a half-smile pulling at his lips. The stress level appears next to him, 43%.

He comes to a full stop a few feet away. More than enough to—maintain a professional distance, he tells himself. It has nothing to do with the calculations and preconstruction that starts up in the background, of how he could evade Reed’s grasp should he reach for Connor.

He says nothing, and after a moment Reed shuffles awkwardly and says, “What’s up?”

Connor stares. Perhaps he is malfunctioning. This is much too civil for the Reed Connor knows. The silence drags on too long. The polite time frame to reply closes rapidly, and Connor watches it, processor clogging with the background programs running, unable to pick a single option from the social relations program that comes up when he takes too long.

“You alright there? Got a bug in your system?” Reed asks, eyebrow raising slightly. His stress level raises too. He’s discontent with Connor’s lack of reply, and it’s edging towards fifty.

“I’m perfectly fine, Officer,” Connor says stiffly, and he sees it notch up once more at the pointed reminder of Reed’s rank. Of why he is that rank in the first place. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, actually. Got something I wanted to ask you,” Reed says, shifting from foot to foot, looking around the lot casually.

Connor is suddenly very aware that there is no one else outside at the moment. Just the two of them, surrounded by a sea of empty cars. He thinks of the first time Reed touched him in this very parking lot, clicking Connor’s pump regulator out of his chest with ease. A deluge of coolant floods his components.

“So, you wanna go out sometime?” Reed finally says.

“Go out?” Connor says blankly, but his system is helpfully pulling up the many definitions of the phrasal verb, and he knows what Reed means before the question has fully left his vocal processor.

“Yeah. I know you don’t eat or whatever, but we could hit up a movie or something.” Reed offers him a crooked smile, and winks, though it’s marred by the fact that his other eye closes too, so it looks like a rather long and awkward blink.

Connor’s processor stalls, and abruptly all active programs close, leaving his mind blank. “Why?” is all he can muster.

Shrugging, Reed looks Connor up and down, eyes almost a physical weight as they brush over him. His smile tugs up on one end, turning into a knowing smirk. “I mean, why not? I know you’re attracted to me. Since you’re too pussy to make the first move, figured I’d do you a favor.”

“That is an interesting observation, Officer,” Connor says, for lack of anything else. He’s still processing Reed’s words, trying to find how he came to that conclusion about Connor.

Reed’s expression turns smug. “I see you watch me, you know? You think I don’t notice, but I see you checking me out from your desk.” Voice lowering conspiratorially, Reed takes a couple steps forward, closing the distance between them. Connor is too stunned to even move as Reed says, hot breath ghosting over his face, “And the way you reacted back then.” His gaze dips pointedly between them, to Connor’s crotch. “Like, you must have been deviant then already, cause you sure got horny for me quick.”

Connor’s temperature regulator spikes, chest twisting tight and burning with the friction. He steps back, surprised when no hand clamps over his arm to hold him in place. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood, Officer Reed.” He presses the hand holding Hank’s phone across his chest, where his regulator is, as if to contain the pressure mounting like a tidal wave. “My reactions back then were calculated by my programming to bring about optimal results. I was simply a machine trying to accomplish a mission.” Satisfying Reed, so he wouldn’t sabotage the investigation or, worse, alert Hank to what was happening and potentially getting the man fired over his feud with Reed.

He should have had more faith in Hank, but in the midst of things he’d been overwhelmed and afraid of the consequences of Hank not having his job to anchor him to this world any longer. Afraid of his reaction to what was happening, too. The disgust if he knew what Connor did to protect his mission. Even though he was a machine at the time, the shame of it flashes along his circuits.

Reed’s brow furrows, disappointed, but he’s persistent. “Well, maybe back then, but you can’t deny you’ve been checking me out now. So, what do you say? You wanna go out, or what?”

Connor takes a breath, trying to release the pressure in his chest, the winding fear snaking through him at the idea of going anywhere with Reed. At what Reed could attempt in another setting. The expectations that would be on him to bare his body again for Reed’s pleasure. Even if he was a machine, even if it was a just sex, he doesn’t want to repeat their encounters in any way.

“No,” he says, void of inflection, schooling his face. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t approach me about this again, Officer Reed. Or at all, for that matter.” He takes a step, moving around Reed, carefully aware of the man in his peripheral, his stress level shooting into the eighties. When Reed reaches out as if to stop him, Connor flinches away, turning out of reach.

“Hey, what the fuck is your problem? Why the hell not, you overgrown toaster?” Reed all but shouts, clenching his fist and shoving it into his pocket when Connor won’t let him get close enough to grab.

Glancing towards the door, aware that any moment someone could come out and see this scene, Connor modulates his voice to its most calming tones. “I’m not interested in pursuing a relationship.”

“It doesn’t have to be a relationship. Damn, we could just bang and be on our fucking way. Just turn on your slut program,” Reed snaps.

The phone creaks his grip and the connections in his arms seems to fuzz, that blanking numbness crawling up his circuits. Slut program. Is that how Reed sees him? As promiscuous, as willing to trade sex for something he wanted, as a  _ slut? _

Is it inaccurate?

“What, no smartass remarks? Or maybe you’ll turn it on for Anderson, but not me.” Clicking his tongue, Reed shakes his head as if disappointed. “Bet that’s how you got this fucking job back. Sucked a little dick so he’d beg your case to Fowler. Or did you just let the captain fuck you right in his office?”

“That’s—!” He cuts himself off and takes two shaky steps away, but Reed isn’t done.

“Oh, what, don’t act all ashamed now! We already did it in the station once, not like there’s no precedence for it with you. Least they already know what a dirty slut you are, so no surprise there.”

He’s too loud, calling so Connor will hear every word as he walks away, and Connor scans the surroundings for people, but the lot is still thankfully empty. When he reaches the door, he doesn’t waste time shoving through, cutting off the last of Reed’s disparagement.

His steps echo in sharp clicks down the empty hallway, and he has to make an effort to slow and lighten them, to let the raging of his thirium ease and the tight bundle of his circuits slacken. He inspects the phone, but there are no cracks, and he adjust his shirt where he bunched it over his chest, smoothing it down, touching each button gingerly. Every one in its hole.

Reed’s words resound in his processor, a mantra he can’t shake even as he slips back to his desk and wordlessly hands the phone to Hank.

-

Connor is quiet when he returns, which isn’t strange. What’s strange is that he stays quiet for most of the day, and every now and then Hank can look over and see Connor’s LED cycling yellow. Even when they head out to a crime scene and have to wait for that Alder prick to come snipe at them while Connor does his job for him, Connor doesn’t say much. Hank tries to strike up a couple of conversations, but they mostly peter out before they get anywhere, and there’s an emptiness in Connor’s one-word replies that doesn’t sit well with Hank.

He’s caught Connor looking at him a few times, lips parted like he wants to say something. To share a thought or make some observation. Then he looks away, mouth closing, LED spinning and spinning. It puts Hank on edge, and he wonders if he did something wrong, or said something he shouldn’t have.

Wouldn’t be the first time—maybe Connor’s still pissed about Hank getting on his case about running off with no back up—but Hank’s never felt so damn anxious about it. Connor’s entitled not to tell him every little thought that passes through his head, but hell if it doesn’t worry Hank, because seeing Connor so quiet and blank reminds him vividly of. Well.

Last November.

A lot happened, and when Connor wasn’t spouting off about the deviancy case or asking a barrage of personal questions that Hank wasn’t ready to answer, there had been moments like this. Of quiet thought, a strange tension that Hank had interpreted so wrongly.

That’s what has him so nervous. As they finally head home for the day, out of the corner of his eye, Hank catches Connor’s hand trailing down his shirt buttons, just beneath his navy tie. He’s seen Connor make the motion many times, but it’s been a while since the last time he noticed it, and yet Connor’s done it at least four times that Hank’s noticed today.

Not like he’s gonna comment, though, knowing the source of that little tic. It makes him sick to think of seeing it in Connor’s own memories, right after Reed had pulled that fucking thing out of Connor’s chest and taunted him with it. Hank’s not exactly raring to remind Connor of it even more, but he guesses he’s probably not too far off about what might be on Connor’s mind.

Sometimes these things just happen. Bad memories come back to haunt out of nowhere, for no particular reason. Hank is far too familiar with that to judge, but at the same time, he wants to brush those thoughts from Connor’s head and see the stiff way he’s been holding himself for the past few hours finally ease.

It’s a stupid thought. What can Hank possibly do to not make that kind of shit more painful? He’s done what he can to make it easy on Connor. Certainly doesn’t bring it up, and neither does Connor. Scaled back on the touching unless Connor initiates it, cause that’s what he was taught in all his sensitivity training years and years ago, but he’s kind of a touchy guy so he can’t help a few nudges and shoulder pats here and there.

That’s the lie he tells himself, anyways. Sure, he’s a touchy guy, but not to the degree that he normally wants to touch Connor. He finds he’s always hauling back on some instinct to throw an arm around the android or touch his shoulder or any other number of urges.

Still, not doing things to potentially remind Connor of what happened isn’t the same thing as actively trying to help him move past it. Maybe that’s not a healthy way of dealing with shit, but it’s the Hank Anderson way, and so far it’s been—okay, it hasn’t been great, but it’s been getting better recently, and he still doesn’t have to talk about it.

Connor’s been a big part of that, helping Hank get his act together in small ways, like with keeping the house clean. He’ll suggest something—taking the trash out, going for a walk with Sumo, doing the laundry—and Hank doesn’t want Connor to feel like he has to do all that shit, so he inevitably helps out, and by the time they’re done, Hank can barely remember why it was so difficult to do these small tasks in the first place. It takes his mind off of it, and maybe Hank can return the favor.

The little hardware store they pass on the way home from work every day is coming up on their right, and Hank slows his old automatic, cruising for a clear spot at one of the parking meters. There’s a couple just a few storefronts down, and when he slides into a spot, Connor shoots him a questioning look.

“Gotta get a couple of things,” he says dismissively, already killing the engine and cracking his door slightly. “You coming?”

When he climbs out carefully and looks up, Connor is doing the same on the other side, already looking down the sidewalk at the flowers piled across the sidewalk on little wooden benches and sitting in plastic plots on the concrete. His mouth is parted, but there’s no sound, and his eyes are more attentive than they have been all day.

Hank smiles to himself as they make their way down to the store. There’s a little chalkboard sign in front of the doors, advertising the symbol Markus always flies. Least it means this place won’t kick them out. They’ve been in more than a few places where Connor got pissy looks from complete strangers before some mealy assistant manager not-so-politely requested they take their business elsewhere.

Every occasion he’d been halfway to flashing his badge and telling them to piss off, but Connor had stopped him each time and acquiesced with barely a blink. It pisses Hank off to no end, the shit Connor has to put up with, just cause he’s an android.

He pointedly doesn’t think that he used to be one of those people, and that he’d often been a real piece of shit to Connor before he cottoned onto just how much deviancy looked a whole lot like humanity. He’s learned at least, unlike some people.

Connor pauses in front of the overflowing garden, and when Hank pulls the front door open to a jingle of bells, Connor turns to follow, but Hank waves him off. “You can look, if you want. I’ll be right back.” After a moment, Connor nods and turns back to stare at the flowers, and Hank continues into the fluorescent interior.

It smells like fresh sawdust and something chemical and the man behind the front counter just inside the door perks up at his entrance.

“Welcome to Ash’s Hardware,” he greets, a slight shake to his voice. His hands fold together nervously across the countertop. There’s no LED, but Hank’s seen this same model of android on the streets of Detroit before, wearing city uniforms and performing menial tasks like cleaning the streets.

“Hey, you mind telling me where to find your lightbulbs?” he asks.

“Just walk down that way and take aisle seven all the way back,” the android says, gesturing behind Hank. He nods in thanks and moves away from the front, glancing out the big display windows between posters as he does. Connor is unmoved from the spot Hank left him in, gaze transfixed on the greenery in front, and Hank’s lips tug into a small smile.

The store isn’t that big and it’s a little shabby. It looks like everything that made up the store was gotten second hand—the white shelves are a little bent and rusted, the light fixtures hanging from the ceiling rigged in place by rope in some spots, the posters and signs around the store are hand-made, and the displays are old wooden benches with items stacked neatly on top next to little price signs. In spite of that, it’s clean and the stock is neatly shelved.

He finds the lightbulbs and stares at the shelves for a while, straining his brain for what kind the bathroom takes. He doesn’t remember it being any different from a regular light bulb, but it’s been a while since he changed it, and it would just be his luck if he took it home and the part that screws in doesn’t fit for whatever reason. He’ll just have to ask Connor, but not yet. Give him some time to decide first.

He picks up a hundred watt bulb that looks about as light bulb-y as it gets, then kills some more time wandering up and down the aisles. There are a couple of other people in the store browsing with baskets who give him enough looks that he thinks they might be androids and he’s the only human in here.

When he feels like he’s killed enough time and shocked enough androids he goes back to the front. He sets the bulb on the end of the counter with a quick, “Be right back,” to the cashier and steps outside.

Connor has finally moved, crouched in front of some plastic planters with stout little sprouts poking out of the dark soil. There’s a worried furrow between his eyebrows as he looks down at the plants, LED circling steadily, and Hank wants to go to him, draw Connor into a hug, and wipe that wrinkle away. He doesn’t. It’s a terrible impulse who’s roots he hasn’t managed to pull.

“Find something?” he says instead, leaning against the storefront and folding his arms to keep them where they belong.

“I was only looking,” Connor says, but he doesn’t glance away, and his LED doesn’t stop spinning. At least it’s blue now, and not that worrisome yellow.

“You’re looking pretty intent. Do you want it?” Hank asks, glancing down at the little paper sign sticking out of the pot. A rose bush.

“It would require being planted in the ground,” Connor says quietly, and Hank’s heart inexplicably quickens.

“Yeah?” His voice comes out a little hoarse, and Hank clears his throat. “Not like we don’t have the space for it.” The back yard is empty and overgrown, Connor could put whatever he wanted out there.

Silence settles as Connor continues to contemplate the little green stubs. Hank’s heart falls. Maybe Connor doesn’t want to put anything permanent down. It’s not like Hank hadn’t been expecting it eventually, that Connor might decide to leave, but he’d been trying to put it out of his mind. All these months have been the best he’s felt since Cole died, and when Connor finally decides to pack it up and find his own place, Hank doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

It’s not like he doesn’t know how to be alone. He’s done it for years. But he’s gotten used to Connor’s company, and he’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t be a little lonely. Or a lot. Even putting aside the annoying feelings bubbling in his chest as of late, he likes having Connor around.

Searching for a distraction, Hank glances down at the little paper sign sticking out of the pot. “Mister Lincoln? They name the flowers?”

Finally, Connor’s lips twitch, the wrinkled line of his brow smoothing a bit. “That is the official name of this type of rose, named for the sixteenth president.”

Hank snorts. “That’s a shitty name. Like naming a rose ‘Hank.’ Who names a rose ‘Mister Lincoln’?”

“The breeder did, in 1964,” Connor says, reaching out as if to touch the plant and then abruptly withdrawing. He puts his hand on his knee instead, fingers clutching the fabric. The smile on his face fades. “You wouldn’t be opposed? They can grow quite tall and they take time to bloom.”

“It’s fine with me.” Hank tries to ignore the feeling swelling beneath his lungs, filling his chest like a helium balloon. Tries not to read too much into Connor wanting to plant something that takes time. “You want one?”

It takes a moment for Connor to reply, but finally he looks up at Hank, mouth twisted anxiously. “I think so,” he says, and he sounds surprised by it. It’s both better than the tension that’s kept his face machine-blank all day, and stranger.

Hank doesn’t know what to make of that look, but he doesn’t press it. Instead, he says, “Okay. That the one you want?” He nods down at the Mister Lincoln they’ve been observing, and Connor nods.

Stooping with a grunt, Hank grabs the dark green planter. The flimsy plastic bends easily beneath his fingers, and he has to readjust his grip as he straightens and turns to the door into the shop.

“I can carry that, Hank,” Connor says, standing hastily, reaching past Hank to open the door for him.

“Yeah, but I got it,” he says flippantly, stepping through. The cashier’s eyes land on Connor and widen slightly, and he straightens as if for an inspection. Connor sees it too, tensing.

Setting the plant on the counter, soil dropping off the bottom and littering the wood, Hank pushes the lightbulb over and says, “We’re ready.”

A hand lands on his arm, and Connor says, “You don’t have to do that, I’ll pay.”

Shaking him off, Hank shakes his head. “Oh, shut it, I don’t mind. Let me buy you a damn rose. All the shit you do for me, it’s the least I can do.” He doesn’t think of the implications of buying Connor a rose until just that moment, and he hopes his beard is enough to disguise the heat rising to his face. “Sorry, go ahead,” he says to the cashier, who’s eyes are darting between them warily, fingers gripping the edge of the counter like he wants to bolt.

The android slowly reaches for the lightbulb, not bothering to scan it into the computer terminal sitting on the desk, probably calculating in his head. Puts it into a little plastic bag and sets it onto the counter. He gets a brown paper bag for the planter, shaking it open and carefully lowering the plant inside. He says, quietly, “That will twenty-one ninety-eight.”

Hank fishes out his wallet and says, “Nice little place you got here. Get much business?” He’s just trying to be conversational, but the cashier jumps and his eyes flick to Connor, who has taken a sudden interest in a display of screws and nuts in little plastic trays.

“We do alright,” the cashier says hesitantly, grabbing the edge of the counter again.

“That’s good,” Hank says, fishing through his cards. There are a dozen membership cards to stores he doesn’t even go to anymore, he really needs to clean the damn thing out. “You like gardening? Any tips for getting this thing planted?”

“Oh!” he says, and his eyes light up. “Yes, uh. I’d recommend somewhere it will get a lot of sun. These can have a five foot spread, so it needs plenty of room. This, in particular, is a climbing variety. Did you want to encourage it to climb a gate or a trellis perhaps?”

“No,” Connor says vehemently, startling them both. His temple flashes red for a moment, but he says nothing else, looking back down at the display.

The cashier shifts uneasily, and finally Hank finds his card and hands it over. “Sounds like you know a lot,” he says awkwardly.

Nodding, the cashier scans Hank’s card through the register. “I was with the urban farms before, uh, last November.”

“Gotta say, I’m surprised. Wouldn’t have figured you’d want to return to working at a similar job.” Some androids returned to the field of work they were made for, but as far as he could tell, most of the ones that worked for the city didn’t. Jobs like the urban farms and trash collecting and mail delivery were usually filled by humans now, and it had greatly helped the unemployment rate.

A little smile comes to the cashier’s face as he hands Hank’s card back with a receipt. “I own this place, actually—I'm Ash. It’s something I realized I enjoyed even after what happened. I didn’t want to go back to the farms, though, so I decided to grow my own, as it were.”

It’s not that weird, really. After all, Connor did the same thing—it only makes sense that some androids got more attached to what they were made for than others. Ash pushes the bags towards Hank, and Connor looks up to help take them out. Hank grabs the lightbulb, leaving the rose for Connor.

“I saw you, actually,” Ash says, and Connor’s hand freezes halfway to the bag. “When you were chasing that android across the gardens last year. You were very… determined.”

Hank’s gut sinks at the blank look that comes over Connor’s face. “I was simply following my programming.” His voice is as wooden as a coffin lid. He takes the brown paper bag carefully by the bottom.

“Yeah,” Ash says, gaining steam. “But you still do the same thing now. You chased an android around the city a few days go. I heard you busted her up, took her eye out. Are you sure you even deviated?”

Without a word, Connor turns towards the door and pushes it open, stepping outside into the orange glow of the fading day. Hank stands for a moment, fucking flabbergasted, but Ash isn’t even looking at him.

“What the fuck was that for, asshole!” he barks, and the android’s head jerks towards him, startled, but Hank doesn’t wait for an answer. The bell jangles loudly as he tears the door open. Connor is already walking briskly down the sidewalk, shoulders a rigid line, and Hank hurries his steps.

“Hey, Connor, slow the fuck down!” he calls, but Connor doesn’t stop until he’s reached Hank’s car and is staring down at the passenger window, paper bag held in his arms. It reminds Hank of the day Connor slipped out of their interview with a witness to go wait at his car while he recalibrated or whatever.

Hank goes around the driver’s side, unlocking the doors, and when they’re both inside, says, “Shit. Don’t let that asshole’s words get to you.”

“I’m not.”

“Cause he doesn’t know anything, alright?” Hank cranks the car with more force than necessary and grips the steering wheel tight. “He just some idiot. You work hard as hell to help protect androids. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

The paper bag in Connor’s lap crinkles as his fingers close around the sides. He says nothing, staring down into its depths, and Hank wishes he could see Connor’s LED to help him figure out what Connor’s thinking, but he’s on the wrong side. He wants to go back in there, tell the jackass off some more for making such a shitty little comment about his partner, but it wouldn’t fix the expressionless look on Connor’s face.

“Look, Connor, he doesn’t know you—”

“It’s fine, Hank,” Connor says suddenly. “It’s fine. Just drive, please.”

Taken aback, Hank slowly nods. When Connor doesn’t say anything else, Hank checks the traffic before pulling out onto the road. He glares at the hardware store as they pass it but Connor doesn’t even look up. Then they’re away from it, weaving between automated cars towards the outskirts of the city. Hank can’t help glancing over at Connor every now and then, but his partner is quiet and inscrutable. Only his fingers give him away, wrinkling the bag as they twist tighter around the plant inside.

He’s seen androids be wary of Connor before, probably for working so closely with humans, but he’s never seen one accuse Connor of not deviating. Is that what a lot of androids think of Connor? Is that why he never goes to Jericho unless it’s for work? It brings a sour taste to Hank’s mouth. They don’t know the shit Connor went through, they just assume because he was made to hunt deviants that he’s some emotionless robot that doesn’t care.

He thinks of cradling Connor’s head against his shoulder while the android shook and cried, trying to convince himself he was just a machine. It makes Hank’s heart ache, and he has to shake the memory away before his eyes start to sting.

Connor helped save their damn revolution. That should be proof enough. Connor deals with shit from people like Alder, he shouldn’t have to deal with doubt from his own kind, too. Hank’s anger burns uselessly and again he fights the urge to put a hand on Connor’s shoulder and reassure him somehow.

The sun has faded by the time they pull into the driveway of their home, and when they get inside, Connor sets the bag on the dining room table and disappears to change clothes. It’s his after work ritual, one that Hank admittedly had to force him into because otherwise Connor would just sit around in his suit and tie all day and night. When he comes out wearing Hank’s old DPD hoodie, the slope of his shoulders is a little more relaxed as he sits at the table.

Hank has to tear his eyes away from him then and focus on spooning leftovers onto a plate instead of how the hoodie hangs loose on Connor’s frame. He throws it into the microwave and grabs a glass, pouring two fingers of Jack Daniel’s and then sliding into the seat across from Connor.

Connor doesn’t say anything, but he gives the glass in Hank’s hand a pointed look, and Hank has to hold in a little smile. At least Connor’s feeling a little better now. It makes Hank relax a little as well, at the hope that Connor isn’t dwelling on that asshole’s words.

As much as he wants to bring up what happened earlier just so he can bitch about it and make himself better, Hank decides it’s probably better to let it rest, especially since Connor seems to be feeling alright now. Instead, Hank says, “So, we got the next two days off. Wanna put it in the backyard?” Hank nods to the paper bag as he takes a sip.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Connor asks, gaze caught on something only he can see. “We’ll have to clean the back up to make room.”

He thinks of the overgrown yard he barely looks at and has to groan. The microwave dings in tune with him. Standing, he goes to fumble the hot plate from it, practically throwing it onto the table to Connor’s raised eyebrow.

“What, it was hot!” Hank says defensively, sitting down.

“If you used an oven mitt, you wouldn’t hurt yourself,” he says disapprovingly.

“Yeah, sure, get a whole oven mitt out just for a tiny plate.” Hank shakes his head. “Anyways, we can do that. Clean up the back yard, I mean. Shouldn’t be that bad, right? You can put it next to the fence, make a little garden if you want.” At Hank’s words, Connor’s brows draw together again, and Hank says, “What? What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” Connor says, and then, “I’m simply pondering the merits of attempting to make a garden out of a garbage heap.” His tone is mild, teasing, but his LED blips momentarily red as he says it.

“Gee, thanks,” Hank mutters, watching Connor’s temple carefully. He’s behaving so strangely about this that Hank would almost think Connor doesn’t  _ want  _ to plant the rose if he hadn’t already asked Hank if it would be alright. As it is, he can’t tell what’s bothering Connor about this situation.

It’s still an improvement over earlier. Connor smiles lightly, and Hank decides not to push it, digging into the too hot food with a small hiss when it burns the roof of his mouth. Connor chastises him for not allowing it to cool, and Hank rolls his eyes, but he’s glad for the return of Connor’s usual brown-nosing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop me a comment if you enjoyed, and see you Tuesday!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank has a back door now because I said so fuck you david cage
> 
> anyways, shit hits the fan this chap hell yeahhhhhhhhh

 

Their off day has Connor up early, shedding the hoodie for a plain shirt and shorts so that nothing will get too dirty. He’d gone into sleep mode the night before and woken quickly from preconstructed dreams of a wire figure holding his hand and leading him down dark tunnels that had transformed into the bowels of Old Jericho. There the figure had slipped up behind Connor, hands roaming his body. Touching his thighs. Spreading them.

The preconstruction broke and he jolted awake, already knowing it wasn’t real, yet unable to shake the way his lungs felt too empty, his chest wound tight. Seeing him awake, Sumo hauled himself onto the couch, and Connor let him despite Hank’s vehemence that Sumo shouldn’t be on the furniture. Having the big dog’s head resting in his lap, content, and running his hands through Sumo’s soft fur had helped soothe the panic crawling across his chassis as he sat through the remaining night. 

Hank doesn’t rise until almost noon, and Connor lets him sleep. He finds the lawnmower in the garage and wheels it to the narrow backyard. A tall privacy fence keeps it hidden from view, and the grass is growing long as spring gets warmer. It’s well up past Connor’s ankles and he checks the protocols for maintenance androids on how to start the lawnmower and go about clearing the yard.

It reminds him of the WF500 that owned the hardware store. It’s the same protocols that type of android runs, and he tries not to dwell on the android’s words as he cranks the lawnmower with an old-fashioned pull string. It starts with a roar after his third try, and he slowly pushes it up and down the narrow strip of lawn, pleased at the clean, bright path of freshly mown grass he trails in his wake.

After he’s done, he wheels it back to the garage and picks a shovel from the flimsy trash can, carrying it around into the back. He takes a while to select a spot, calculating which section of the garden will get the most sunlight throughout the day without being in the way, and decides on a spot near the back corner of the yard, right against the fence. There, he plants the shovel, allowing unused subroutines to guide him through the process of digging just deep enough for the rose bush.

Eventually, Hank does awaken, coming out to stand on the back steps just in time to see Connor press a dirt-covered finger to his tongue.

“Connor!” he says loudly. “What the fuck!”

It startles Connor and he drops his hand quickly, thirium pump stuttering, holding down a shiver. “Sorry, Hank. I’m just checking the pH value of the soil,” he says, overly loud, trying to contain the sudden anxiety that unsteadies him. He focuses on the process of his oral analyzer breaking down the soil, reminding himself it’s just Hank.

Information scrolls across his HUD and he gives the analysis a thorough read as his racing thirium pump gradually. On the high end of neutral, but not quite out of the optimal range. “It should do well. It has a pH of 7.0. It’s also got a good texture to hold moisture,” he says, at a more reasonable volume.

“Oh, good, I’m so glad the dirt is the right dirt. Wouldn’t want to have had to go buy more  _ dirt _  to make the  _ dirt _  better.” There’s an implicit eye roll in his voice that Connor ignores as he takes the rose planter in hand. He’d watered it, allowing the soil to loosen, and he carefully extracts the short, leafless canes.

“Looks good out here,” Hank says, and his shadow falls over Connor, blocking the rising sun. He’s watching curiously as Connor sets the damp ball of roots into the hole. “You didn’t have to do all this alone. I would have helped, you know.”

“I’m aware, but I enjoy keeping busy, and I wanted to do this myself,” Connor says, scooping soil into the hole. His hands are speckled with it, turning his skin muddy. “Of course, next week you’ll be responsible for the garage.” He looks up at Hank, optics quickly adjusting against the sun until Hank’s shadowed, amused face becomes clear. “As we agreed.”

“Aww, shit, you’re really gonna hold me to that, huh?”

“Don’t worry, I will be right there with you, after all. You’ll be in good hands.” Connor winks.

Hank’s mouth drops open, closes, opens again, seeming lost for words. After a moment, he says, “Uh, I’ll be inside. Let me know if you need help or whatever.” He turns and stomps back across the verdant yard, leaving Connor kneeling by the fence.

Connor stares after him, processors replaying the last few moments, wondering where he went wrong. He’d winked at Hank before, and Hank had not seemed so put off by it. Turning back to the rose, Connor takes the watering can he’d borrowed from the garage and gently pours it into the hole, now half-filled with soil.

There are plenty of differences between then and now that might cause Hank to react negatively. Most of them in Connor himself. His deviancy, the months they’ve been living together, what happened with Reed—

_ “Dirty fucking deviant.” _

_ “Least they already know what a dirty slut you are, so no surprise there.” _

His hand stills. The water pools in the hole, loose soil floating across the top. Slowly, he sets the watering can to the grass at his side and closes the memory files.

Humans have a complicated view of sexuality and sex, and it’s easy enough for someone to hold contradictory opinions of things. Despite Hank’s belief that Connor was in some way hurt by what happened, maybe that’s what Hank thinks of him, too. Dirtied by what Connor allowed. Because it was Reed. Or because he did it for his mission.

The water in the hole recedes in slow increments, settling the dirt beneath more firmly.

Amanda hadn’t particularly cared. He hasn’t been to the garden since he used Kamski’s emergency exit, but he’s aware of its state deep in his system. Frozen and silent, a ghost of the beauty that had once flourished. She had told him he was losing focus. That what happened to him was unimportant. Maybe she even secretly approved of how Connor reacted. After all, it’s what CyberLife intended all along—for Connor to become deviant.

Water drips down the short, stiff canes of the rose bush. Little red prickles protrude from the sides, sharp points dotting the length of them. He can’t recall Amanda ever having cut herself on one, and he wonders if that’s because she was careful, or if it simply wasn’t included in their programming.

The androids he hunted wouldn’t care either. Not the ones that lived or the ones that didn’t. Not Daniel, Ortiz’s android, Rupert, Fisk, the two Eden Club androids, or any of the others. The androids he took down will never have lives like the WF500 at the hardware store, and that android had known it, too. They would see it as just, perhaps, that he was so adversely affected by something so inconsequential.

If it was truly so harmful, he should have deviated sooner. Instead, he pushed his growing deviancy aside and continued to hunt androids, despite the doubt he was having. Any negative feelings he has are his own fault for allowing it to continue for so long.

He scoops more soil into the hole, filling it, the servos of his arms and hands stiff and slow to respond. Pours more water on top to help it settle, too. They’re bare now, but in the coming months they’ll grow taller and bloom bright red roses like the ones in Amanda’s garden. A poisonous red, with wicked thorns and a heady scent.

He thinks of Amanda, and her shears, snipping them cleanly from the trellis. Pruning the canes so that they would continue to grow in the desired direction. Telling him,  _ Whatever happens to you is unimportant. _

The plastic handle of the watering can creaks beneath his grip, and splinters with a crack. A sudden deluge crashes over his legs, soaking his pants, and Connor looks at his hand, startled to see the seam of the watering can split to the base. He stands, spilling more water onto the dirt, and gives the shoots a final look. The water is soaking in, settling well, and there’s not much else he can do besides add some mulch later.

He puts it on his task list and takes the broken watering can with him around to the front, putting it in the garbage can by the road. Hank is on the couch, eating a late breakfast, and he looks up as Connor enters through the front door, thankfully not dripping on the carpet.

“Damn, what happened to you?” Hank asks, looking over the back of the couch.

Connor says, tersely, “The watering can broke.”

“Oh.”

He is very aware of Hank’s eyes on him over the back of the couch as he crouches down to remove his shoes so he won’t track mud through the house. His motions are short and sharp, tugging the laces loose with more force than necessary. After a moment, Hank sets his plate on the coffee table with a light  _ clink  _ and stands, moving to stand at the end of the couch.

“You alright?” Hank asks.

“I’m okay,” Connor says, too stiff, placing his shoes neatly in the corner before straightening. His clothes stick to his skin unpleasantly. He can feel every small bit of sand, clay, and organic matter on his dermal layer.

Hank reaches out, brushing his arm, saying, “Hey—”

Connor jerks way from his touch. His thermal regulator fluctuates, hot and cold flashing through him. His thirium pump churns in his chest like a broken rotor. Hank raises his hand, palm out, saying, “Whoa, sorry!” but Connor barely hears, moving past him quickly into the hall. He goes into Hank’s room first, grabbing a clean pair of jeans and shirt, and the hoodie he’d left in there when he’d changed earlier.

He takes them with him across the hall, into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. Doesn’t look at the mirror as he begins to strip.

He’s used Hank’s shower before, but since he doesn’t produce sweat or lose skin particles, it’s not necessary as often as it is for a human. He turns the shower on and steps right in, his plates shuddering at the blast of cold water that his thermal regulator works to compensate for. It’s much different from the decontamination showers at CyberLife. There’s no soap in the spray, so he uses Hank’s body wash, and after a few moments the water turns warm. He washes the dirt from his legs, glancing at his skin sparingly, primarily using his physical sensors to determine when he’s clean.

It’s a little ridiculous. He has seen himself naked, been naked, many times, in many different situations. Was never even fully naked with Reed, the source of so many of these annoying glitches and hangups, and yet he hesitates at seeing his own bare skin.

The sensors on his thighs indicate he’s clean, and he moves on to his calves, then his feet, then back up to his thighs because he feels more that he must have missed. Water runs down his face, into his eyes, and he closes them as he feels around the back of his knees, up his thighs, between his legs where the sensation is the strongest.

The press of his own fingers against his skin startles him, even though he’s fully cognizant of every part of his body and what he’s doing. He wipes at the dirt, but it’s stubborn, sticking to his skin, and he has to scrape at it with his fingers. Peeling up flakes of—

_ “Clean this mess up, deviant.” _

His eyes fly open and he straightens, looking around wildly, already knowing there’s no one in here, that it’s his faulty memory recall, but unable to help himself. His systems are elevated, as if for a fight, thirium flooding his components, and he stands there breathing harshly through his nose as water runs down him.

The bathroom is empty. There’s still dirt on his thighs.

He keeps his head raised, eyes open as he scrapes at the skin. Even when he thinks he’s gotten it off, he senses more, feels it farther up, and his fingernails dig sharply there. He can’t feel it with his fingers, but he still feels it on his skin, and only when his HUD is suddenly filled with a flashing warning does he pause. Superficial damage. Repair time: ten minutes.

He stares at it, and then finally drags his gaze down, forcing himself to look. Some of the sensors of his thighs have gone dark, and he turns his leg out to see the pale plastic of his chassis where he’d scraped until the skin pulled back. There’s no dirt, just scratches in the plastic, thin little runnels deeper than they should be. He should have noticed before that happened.

The shower knob slips under his hands as he shuts it off and climbs out of the shower, nearly slipping as his wet heel hits the floor. He towels off, wipes the water from his skin and hair. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and forces himself to look. His hair is dark and damp, a wild mess that begs for a comb, and his skin is perfect and unblemished but for the sprinkling of carefully placed freckles. There is no dirt. There are no scars from where Reed bit his shoulder and neck. His face is composed and whole.

He should stop thinking about it. Stop pulling the memory files up, stop pretending it was so bad.

But there’s no way to force-stop the feeling of something sticking to his thighs, or the phantom touches across his chassis.

-

All Hank can focus on is the expression on Connor’s face when he’d swept through the living room. Just a blankness, his LED swirling yellow. Despite it, his body language spoke out. Frustration. Fear when Hank tried to calm him with a touch. That had been mistake. When would he learn he shouldn’t touch Connor?

His appetite is gone, replaced by a churning worry, and he scrapes the remains in the the trash and sets the plate in the sink. He returns to the couch, listening to the hiss of the shower, and flips around on the tv but nothing catches his eye. He picks his phone up, opens a phone game that came pre-installed, then just stares at the colorful board until his screen goes dark.

Leaving him to stare at the thick scar on his thigh, reminding him of last year.

By the time Connor returns from his shower, hair dark with water but neatly combed, Hank hasn’t managed to do anything more than sit in his thoughts. Connor takes the middle cushion on the couch, silent. There’s a warmth radiating from his freshly cleaned skin, and Hank resists the urge to reach out and touch his cheek or something equally stupid.

He thinks for a second, trying to choose his words more carefully than he usually does, because he doesn’t want to upset Connor worse. “How was gardening?” he finally settles on, cause it’s close to the topic he wants to ask about, but still neutral enough.

“Fine,” Connor says. Hank can’t see his LED from this side, and Connor doesn’t turn to look at him. He’s stiff, back barely touching the cushions behind him, hands folded neatly in his lap. It makes something in Hank’s chest twist to see that familiar posture again.

He doesn’t look fine. He looks like an android straight out of the box, except for the casual jeans and the too big hoodie. He looks unhappy, even if his mouth is an unbent line and his eyes are unwrinkled at the edges. He looks like the night he gave Hank the password to his little memory chip, as robotic as he could make himself, as if he could somehow force his own growing deviancy back into Pandora’s box if he only pretended hard enough.

Maybe Hank fucked up. Something about that rose makes Connor antsy, and Hank should have recognized it and left it alone instead of pushing to let Connor have it. They’re in this now, though, whatever it is, and just like a dog with a bone, Hank doesn’t know how to let go.

“That’s good,” Hank says, turning back to the tv, pretending to watch the people on the screen arguing animatedly. Glancing over casually every now and then. “How’d the watering can break? It didn’t look that old, so I’m kinda surprised.”

Next to him, Connor’s hands clench together, fingers digging in against his skin. “I was careless. I overestimated the strength of the plastic and overfilled it, and it broke when I picked it up.” His voice is flat, toneless. Uninterested in his own words.

“Stronger than you look,” Hank says, with a small smile. Connor doesn’t even glance in his direction. “You excited for when it blooms?” He hesitates, then figures, what the hell. Beating around the bush won’t get him anywhere. “Cause you don’t really seem like it. You don’t have to plant it just cause I bought it for you, Connor.”

Connor’s head snaps around to him so fast Hank’s neck hurts in sympathy. “No. I appreciate it, Lieu—” He catches himself, as if finally realizing how robotic he’s behaving. “Hank. I just find my feelings on the matter are conflicted.”

“What, on the rose? Why’s that?” He lifts an eyebrow, unable to continue pretending to be interested in the tv anymore, watching Connor openly now.

“Do you remember, when I first came to stay with you, I said that CyberLife attempted to regain control of me?” Connor asks, out of nowhere.

It takes a minute for Hank to remember, because their conversation that afternoon had been a helluva time for the both of them. “Yeah. You said they tried to make you shoot Markus, but you found Kamski’s exit, or whatever.” He’d nearly forgotten in the face of Connor’s breakdown, but he’d been pissed at the time. At how many people thought they could control Connor and take advantage of him.

Connor nods and finally glances at Hank, eyes dark and solemn. “I made regular reports to CyberLife through a program in my system. When I was called into the program, it manifested as a virtual garden. And in the garden was my handler, an AI by the name of Amanda.” As he speaks, his voice drops almost to a whisper. “She was how I self-tested for deviancy. When I reported to her, she would ask me questions about how I felt or what I was doing to progress the case. She was often disappointed in me, and reminded me that if I failed, I would be destroyed. Killed.” He takes a breath, and on the exhale, says, “She grew roses.”

“Oh.”

“The sight of them simply reminds me of her very strongly.”

“Shit, Connor, I’m sorry,” Hank starts, already beating himself up. It was obvious the roses made Connor upset, he really should have left it alone. Figures, though, he’d managed to buy Connor something that would just remind him of being a slave to CyberLife.

“No,” Connor says quickly, before Hank can finish. “I wanted them. But I couldn’t make myself buy them. I like how they look. Roses are actually quite beautiful.” His lips lift in a small, sad smile. “I guess I thought that if I grew them myself, I would feel differently.”

“You don’t have to keep it if it’s, I dunno, too weird to have around. Hell, we could go out there and stomp it to death,” Hank says, and is gratified when Connor’s smile turns to genuine amusement. “Just don’t make yourself miserable trying to fix what’s not broken.”

Connor quirks a questioning eyebrow at Hank. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you don’t like roses cause it reminds you of all that bad shit, that’s fine. I guess it’s probably healthy to figure that shit out and, like, try to get over it or whatever. But you shouldn’t hurt yourself doing it.” Hank runs a hand through his hair awkwardly, feeling suddenly stupid. “I know, big words coming from a fuckup like me, but uh. That’s my two cents, anyways.”

It’s quiet for a moment, except for the tv playing softly, and then Hank jumps as he feels fingers on top of his, where they rest on his thigh. Sweat breaks out across his back and under his pits, and he has a panicky moment where he realizes he hasn’t put on deodorant and then isn’t sure if androids can even smell and then the hand squeezes once, and is gone, withdrawing back to Connor’s lap. Connor, who is smiling slightly, looking much more like himself than the android sent by CyberLife.

“I think I understand what you mean. Thank you, Hank.”

It’s a better reaction than Hank expected, and he breathes a mental sigh of relief that he didn’t fuck that up too bad. “Yeah, of course.”

Connor looks away again, the smile slipping off his face. Hank’s heart sinks just a little to see it go. “I apologize for being so standoffish before,” he says earnestly, looking down at his lap, hands locked together.

“Aw hell, nothing you need to apologize for,” Hank says, waving a hand. Connor rarely acts out on his frustration, and Hank’s sure there must be a lot of it, because Hank himself gets frustrated on Connor’s behalf. At how some of their fellow officers treat him, and especially at how that android talked to him. Connor just maintains a cool attitude through most of it, and Hank both envies that, and worries.

It could be par for the course, being an android, but part of Hank is waiting for the levees to break. He remembers all too well holding Connor in his arms after the revolution. Feeling Connor shaking and breaking, finally allowed to act on the feelings that he’d convinced himself he didn’t have.

Connor just nods silently, looking unconvinced.

“Got two whole days ahead of us and we’re not even on call,” Hank says, deciding to turn the conversation to something a little lighter. “What should we do with all this free time?”

He can’t do much—doesn’t know how to ask Connor what he wants, or needs—but he can try to be there for Connor in moments like this. When the frustration leaks through. Help Connor wade through it to the other side.

-

He feels strange as he prepares for work after their weekend. As if he could have somehow forgotten what was built into him, or that things will be different. He dresses while Hank is in the shower and goes out to water the rose. It has a layer of mulch over the soil, and the watering can he uses is small, yellow, and in the shape of a duck. Both came from a big box store.

Not much has changed for the plant in the past thirty-three hours. It is still nothing more than short, stiff canes poking out of dark mulch, waiting to grow. It is a relief. He dreads anything more. Despite his confession to Hank, and Hank’s gruff but sincere words, he can’t help but worry over it. As if Amanda will materialize with that first bloom and try to call him back to CyberLife.

Now, though, it’s small and unassuming, surrounded by empty grass with a tall fence at its back. It looks rather bare.

He thinks about it as they go through their morning routine, Hank making a quick breakfast that Connor insists be something other than reheated leftovers. He thinks about it as they sit at the table and talk about the news, which Connor scrolls through on his HUD.

When they climb into the car, it finally occurs to him why it looks so bare, and he says, barely processing his own words, “I’d like to plant something else, if that would be alright.”

Hank pauses in the act of shutting the car door, then says, “Instead of the rose?”

“With the rose.” He realizes how forward that is, assuming Hank would want him to put down yet another thing that could take months to grow. Anchoring him in Hank’s space so inconsiderately. “I understand if you say no. I don’t want to impose. I just thought it looked almost. Lonely.” Ascribing a trait such as lonely to a non-sentient being sounds ridiculous, and yet, it’s the only adjective his processor finds appropriate.

The door closes, and Hank starts up the car. He sets the car in reverse, but pauses before back out of the driveway. “You’re not imposing, Connor. Go ahead, plant as many things as you like back there. Not like I do anything with the space.”

A weight seems to life from Connor’s chest, and his lips quirk of their own accord. “Thank you, Hank.”

He seems to be saying that a lot, lately.

The precinct is no more busy than normal when they head inside, using the back entrance by the parking lot. As they pass a few people in the hall, however, Connor can’t help but noticed some elevated stress levels, especially when they glance in his direction. It sets him on edge, his own stress rising as if in answer.

The bullpen is unusually quiet when they come into it, and he falters as he takes in creased brows, wrinkled noses, heads bowed in whispered conversation. The stress levels are incredibly high, in the seventies, and Connor’s hands twitch. He can’t resist the motion for long, and he tucks his fingers beneath his tie and touches his buttons in a smoothing motion. It does nothing to quell the anxiety thrumming up his spine, especially when heads start turning, and the conversation falls quiet.

Hank doesn’t miss it, either, and he glares around at the stares. “The fuck are you all looking at? Shouldn’t you be working?” he calls loudly, and a few people look away, but just as many don’t.

“Connor!” A voice calls, and an information box spreads on his HUD. A children’s article on the formation of soap bubbles and pastel green. Chris Miller jogs from his desk, meeting them halfway across the bullpen, halting them in their tracks. His stress level is even higher, mid-eighties, and Connor’s servos feel out of sync.

“Hey, Chris, what the hell is up with everyone today?” Hank asks, but Chris doesn’t even look at Hank.

“Connor, there are. Uh,” he fumbles, apparently lost for how to explain, before he takes a steadying breath. “I just want to warn you. Someone’s been sharing a photo around. It’s of you. I haven’t seen it, but I’ve heard—we’ve all heard it was pretty— racy.”

A message appears on his HUD, an alert from Gavin Reed, and at the same time Hank’s phone dings with an incoming text. He hesitates for a second, staring at Chris’ pinched face, processing his words, and then opens the full message.

And freezes.

It’s a photo of himself from above, kneeling on checkered tiles, with a cock resting against his lower lip. There’s semen on his cheek, dripping from his slightly open mouth and chin. Connor’s processes stutter, reeling, because he’s never seen this moment from the other side of it, but he knows it intimately. Knows the feeling of cold tiles beneath his knees and his biocomponents caught in a tightening corkscrew and the echoing camera shutter and Reed’s parting words like a broken audio file on repeat.

_ “Dirty fucking deviant.” _

He turns, slowly, too slow, watching Hank’s fingers tap the screen of his phone.

“Lieutenant. Don’t—”

“What the hell…”

Connor reaches out, grasping the phone, skin peeling back from his fingers and hand as he connects with it. Hank lets him, lowering his arm, looking at Connor with wide, confused eyes as Connor rips through the phone and deletes the message.

Everyone is looking at them, at him, and he can hear them whispering again.

“Connor?” Hank says, and he sounds perplexed, as if he can’t wrap his head around what he saw. “Was that…?”

“No,” Connor says. “It doesn’t matter.”

Miller is looking between them, brows knitted right. “You okay? It’s not something bad, is it?”

“No,” Connor says again, firmer. “It’s fine. Thank you, Officer Miller.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says doubtfully. “Just, let me know if you need anything, okay, Connor?” With a nod, he walks away slowly, looking back over his shoulder as he goes.

Hank hasn’t moved an inch, but his expression morphs from confusion to anger in a split second, and he bites out, “Come on, we’re telling Fowler.” He turns, making a line for the captain’s office, hands fisted at his side.

His thirium pump stutters in his chest, and Connor reaches out, snagging Hank’s wrist. “Hank, wait,” he says, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He’s too aware of the eyes on them, watching the display. Hank’s stress level is at 88%.

“Wait for what, Connor?” Hank asks in an angry whisper. “Wait for that prick to pull something else?”

“Hank,” Connor says, not sharply, but he glances around at the room meaningfully. When he lets go and heads towards the exit, he’s rewarded with Hank’s grudging acquiescence as he follows.

They wind through the halls, deeper into the station, towards the gym and locker rooms that Connor has only seen once when Chris showed him around the station after his return. He’s encouraged Hank to use them to improve his cardiovascular health, but Hank is stubborn and Connor himself has no reason to come here, being an android. It takes them a few minutes, where he can feel the tension radiating off Hank.

Connor feels frozen. As if he’s still standing in the middle of the station, still stuck in the realization of what people have seen. Of what Hank has seen. He has to remind himself that Hank’s already seen it. That Hank already knows. It shouldn’t matter that he’s seen that picture.

The halls back here are quiet. The gym sees little use during the day, and they pause in front of the door to the locker room, Hank crossing his arms and glaring at the wall over Connor’s shoulder.

“Tell Fowler.”

“No.”

Hank gapes at him. “Why the hell not?” he thunders, and it echoes down the hallway. The stress meter jitters upwards and Connor’s reaches into his pocket for his quarter to quell the aimless, nervous directive for his hands to be doing something.

“I’d rather not inform the Captain, Hank. It may affect my assessment.” He can see Hank gearing up to argue, a succinct  _ Fuck your assessment  _ undoubtedly on the way, but Connor cuts him off. “We can’t talk about this right now, Lieutenant, but please.”

He doesn’t want to argue with Hank, doesn’t want to see the numbers of Hank’s stress ticking up towards 100%, but he can’t bring this up to the captain. Reed has gotten his revenge for Connor’s rebuff. He’ll likely leave it alone after this, especially if Connor doesn’t allow himself to be affected by it.

“Connor. You have to tell Fowler,” Hank grinds out between clenched teeth, and Connor’s processors choose then to throw the ingredients of Jack Daniels and a blue hexcode in his face, like an admonishment. “I know that little shit did this, I’m not letting him get away with this.”

“Hank!” Connor says sharply, and Hank’s eyes finally meet his, dark and angry. “Please listen to me. We will talk about this when we get home. Please.” He forces a calmness he doesn’t feel, careful to keep his hands from trembling, his voice from wavering. He needs Hank to calm down, can’t have him jumping the gun. They can’t go to Fowler over this. “Please, Hank,” he says, letting his expression soften.

Hank stares at him for a long moment, searching his face, before looking away with a grunt. Relief floods Connor.

“Fine,” Hank mutters, and Connor can see his fury hasn’t abated even a little, but he turns on his heel and stomps down the hallway, leaving Connor standing next to the locker room door. The info box fades away.

Connor leans against the wall well after he’s gone, pressing a hand flat against his chest. Takes a breath, trying to lower his own stress level and thermoregulator.

_ “You look so good fucked up. So fucking hot.” _

He shakes his head, closing the memory file, fingers digging his shirt. He can’t get worked up over this. He can’t draw the captain’s attention to the picture, can’t risk losing what he’s worked so hard for. He almost regrets saying no to Gavin, but it’s too late to go back, and giving in would not have been the correct course.

But now everyone knows what he’s done. Maybe not the sordid details, the where and who with, but they’ve seen more than enough. Seen him on his knees. How he took it without a struggle.

He could transfer. After his probationary period, provided he passes the assessment, he could move to a different precinct. One where no one would have had a chance to see that picture. It would involve leaving Hank behind, however, and something in him sinks at the thought. He doesn’t want to lose Hank as his partner.

There’s a chance Hank would transfer with him, but he hesitates the calculate the likelihood of it. Especially with how angry Hank is right now. It would be hard working with a new partner, getting used to new coworkers, and there’s no way to know if they would be more welcoming of an android amongst their ranks.

That would be running from his problems. A problem he helped create. Besides, maybe nothing will change if he stays. Perhaps, like a piece of gossip, it will fade from their interest.

He thinks of the people he works with. The officers and lab techs and other personnel, seeing that picture,  _ knowing  _ what he did.

He can feel the thrum of his pump beneath his palm, frantic and sharp.

-

It seems to float in front of Hank’s eyes, the picture burned like an afterimage into his retinas. The dick pressed against Connor’s soft lips, the empty look in his eyes, the come on his face. He had seen the sender before Connor deleted it, he knew Reed had spread this picture around, and he has to push that thought from his brain every five seconds or he’s going to flip his fucking desk or find Reed and beat the living daylights out of the piece of shit.

They should tell Jeffrey, this is fucking harassment, but Connor had shut him down over his assessment. His fucking  _ assessment. _

He wants to say fuck Connor’s damn assessment, this isn’t about his performance. Wants to grab Connor and go into Jeffrey’s office and have something done, or turn to him and force him to explain why he won’t tell the captain. Instead, Hank just sits at his desk like a useless lump. Having an argument in the middle of the precinct  _ will  _ affect Connor’s assessment, and he doesn’t want to give any of the looky-loos who can’t stop watching Connor more reason to talk.

He holds it in, all day, as they go to crime scenes and wrap up cases and fill out paperwork. But he can’t stop looking at Connor, at his LED and his too calm face. How can Connor be so damn calm, knowing people have seen— _ that?  _ Hank’s under no illusions about what the picture was. He went through Connor’s memories last year, and he may not have witnessed that exact moment, but he has no doubt it was another of Reed’s assaults. Reed had alluded to as much, after all, in the encounter Hank had seen.

_ “Don’t act like you don’t want this—you were made for this. Following orders and taking cock, and so far, it looks like you’re only good at one of those.” _

Connor won’t look at him, keeps a stiff distance that wasn’t there even when he hadn’t deviated, when they were just a man and a machine shoved together by chance. He feels useless again. A useless drunk who can’t even keep his friend from being hurt. He’d promised Connor. One wrong look, and they were out, but what were they doing instead? Continuing on like everything is normal. Like Reed wasn’t throwing around a picture of Connor being fucking raped.

His chest is full of gunpowder and tinder. He bites his tongue, keeps his teeth from striking sparks, but he can feel it welling up his throat. It’s a familiar feeling. It’s how he felt last year, watching from behind Connor’s eyes as he was forced to endure Reed’s assaults. It’s suffocating him and he wants to burn.

They get through the rest of their shift, they drive home. Hank takes a different route, only a minute longer, just to avoid giving that shit-ass hardware store even the time of day. He contains everything, as long as he can, pushing through the front door and ignoring Sumo, who greets them happily, oblivious to their mutual silence and avoidant eyes.

He’s doing good. He makes it one, two, three steps into the kitchen. Almost says something, then decides maybe he can hold this off with something to drink. Something a little stronger.

There’s a bottle of Black Lamb in one of the cabinets, top shelf, pushed to the back. He clicks his tongue when his fingers brush the cool glass, doesn’t look at Connor as he pours himself well beyond three fingers of whiskey. It’s all going to the same place anyways, so what’s it even matter?

He feels the weight of a disapproving gaze as he sits at the kitchen table with the glass and the bottle, but he shuts his eyes against it and tilts the glass to his lips. It burns more than the Jack Daniels, boiling in his guts. He should have known better. All that tinder and gunpowder soaked in alcohol is a bad combination.

“When are you gonna go to Fowler?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. “Cause if you don’t, I will, Connor.” He keeps his eyes on the table as he says it. He hears Connor come to the kitchen entrance, pausing in the dark shadows of the living room.

“I still think that is unnecessary, Hank. It could negatively affect my assessment, as I told you, and—”

“No. Stop.” Hank holds up a finger, cutting whatever reasonable bullshit Connor was going to try to feed him off at the knees. He takes another deep swallow of whiskey, smacking his lips, feeling every bit the drunken asshole, even if he’s not quite buzzed yet. “I told you before, if Reed does anything, and Fowler just sits on his ass and lets it happen, we’re through.”

“He hasn’t done anything, Lieutenant.”

The use of his title is gasoline to the mix. “Yes he fucking has,  _ Detective, _ ” he snarls, and ignores Connor’s sharp intake of breath. “I don’t know how you call spreading a picture like that not doing anything.”

“It’s a picture of an illicit situation, that’s all. He’s retaliating childishly, and if I let him think he has upset me then he knows he has something he can use against me, Lieutenant.” Connor’s voice is stony and quiet.

Hank rolls Connor’s words around like a mouthful of whiskey. “Retaliating for what?” Finally, he looks at Connor, still standing beyond the light of the kitchen, his LED a golden ghost.

Lips part in the shadows and Hank watches the gleam of his eyes as they flicker away.

“Connor,” Hank says harshly, demanding his attention. But the moment Connor’s eyes are on him again, his voice softens. “Those aren’t just pictures of some illicit situation, or whatever. It’s a picture of him hurting you. You don’t have to put up with this. Why won’t you tell Fowler?” And, after a moment, “For chrissakes, come sit down.”

Connor hesitates, and Hank curses his own assholish behavior. He’s not handling this well, but it’s hard to think straight through the rage of what Reed has done, and how Connor is so obviously affected but refuses to do anything. He does come into the light, after a second, and draws the chair opposite of Hank out, sitting stiffly.

“Statistics show,” Connor pauses. He reaches into the pocket of his coat, which he still hasn’t taken off, and rolls his quarter across his knuckles, focusing on it instead of Hank. “The likelihood of Captain Fowler taking his side are quite high.”

Hank’s heart sinks to his knees. It makes sense, after all. When Hank went to Jeffrey last year with the evidence of what Reed did, all that had happened was Reed’s demotion for fucking around on a sting. It had nothing to do with what he did to Connor, just where and when. But times have changed. Androids have rights now, and Jeffrey should be on their side this time. At least, that’s what Hank wants to hope. It makes too much sense why Connor is hesitant, though.

“Okay. I guess I see why you’d say that. But you can’t know that for sure.” He tries to sound reasonable, cause he can’t just let this stand. This is fucked up. “He’s not gonna be happy with Reed spreading pictures like that, that’s for sure. If we just show him—”

“I don’t want to,” Connor says suddenly, softly, cutting Hank off.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to talk to Captain Fowler, Hank. After my assessment, I will be eligible for a transfer to another precinct.” Hank’s mouth drops open. Transfer. Shit, he hadn’t even considered that. It would definitely solve the problem of being around that douchebag—he’d never have to know which district Connor went to. “I enjoy this job. I don’t want what happened before to affect my assessment. It’s only another month away. I don’t want to transfer, of course. Working with you again is one of the reasons I wanted to return to this job. But it is an option I would prefer.”

Hank’s eyes feel too hot, and he looks down at the amber liquid in his glass. “Coulda told me the plan earlier. It’s been a while since I worked anywhere other than central, but I think I could swing it.”

“You would be willing to transfer with me?” Connor asks, eyebrows raising in disbelief, head tilting.

“Of course, numb nuts. Fuck, I told you before. If you said no to the job offer, I was gonna turn in my badge. You think I’m gonna stick around without you?” He’d wanted Connor to tell them no, just so Hank could deliver the decision and see Jeffrey’s face, but he hadn’t, and Hank certainly wasn’t going to let Connor deal with their bullshit alone. Jeffrey had failed Connor, and had tarnished any remaining pride Hank had in his job, by letting Reed get away with what amounted to a slap on the wrist. Already it was healing over, fading as Jeffrey returned Reed’s detective duties to him. “Shit, Reed still shouldn’t be able to get away with this, though. You know this is fucked up, right? We could still do something about this.”

The coin in Connor’s hand goes still. “I’m sorry. I know you think talking to the captain would be for the best, but I don’t want to drag this out more than necessary.” His LED turns red, stays there for several seconds. “I don’t enjoy dwelling on it.”

The anger, the rage, rushes out of Hank all at once. “Right. Yeah, of course. Sorry, Connor. I just.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out in a heavy sigh. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit at all. It’s not right.” Suddenly, the rest of the whiskey looks a lot less appealing, and he pushes the glass away with his fingers, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m not trying to control you or make your decisions for you or anything. I want to help, I guess.”

“I know,” Connor says, looking down at the coin caught between two knuckles. “I appreciate it. I simply want to put this behind me.”

He can’t blame Connor one bit. The shit he went through was fucking horrible, and Hank’s the one trying to force him to talk about it, to drag it out in front of their boss. He can’t stand the thought of Reed getting away with this, getting away with hurting Connor  _ again,  _ but going against Connor’s wishes and talking to Fowler anyways would make Hank no better than Reed.

This is Connor’s choice, as much as it makes Hank burn to let this go unpunished.

After a second, Hank abruptly pushes up from the table and goes to the sink with the glass and the bottle. He stalls for a second, but he almost went off the rails just now, shouting at Connor for how he chose to deal with his problems. With an unsteady hand, he tips the whiskey down the drain. It  _ glugs  _ from the bottle in waves until there’s nothing left, and when he tosses it into the trash after, Connor is giving him a soft, approving look

Hank returns to the table, sitting with a heavy sigh. “Okay. I won’t go to Fowler. But, if Reed does anything like this again, just. Fuck. I don’t know, promise me you’ll try talking to Fowler? I know he didn’t do jack shit before, but you’re one of us now. He can’t ignore this if it keeps up. You shouldn’t have to transfer because of this, Reed should be the one walking on eggshells here.”

Connor hesitates, LED swimming yellow, but it’s a solid blue when he finally nods. “Okay. I promise, if it happens again, I’ll talk to the captain.”

Hank’s shoulders drop as the tension drains out of him. It’s not great, it means Reed gets away with this, but it’s something. “Okay. Alright. That’s good.” He hesitates, but he fucked up, and Connor didn’t deserve his outburst. “Sorry for, uh,” he waves a hand vaguely, knows he should be more specific, but the shame of his actions is catching up with him fast. “All that. For being a dick to you.”

“Thank you,” Connor says, and a small smile pulls at his lips. “I know you are only worried for me, Hank, and I appreciate it.”

The look Connor gives him is far softer than he deserves, and something in Hank’s chest melts at the sight of it. It’s embarrassing, but he can’t look away, and he hopes he’s not making a stupid face as he fumbles for something to say. “You gonna sit there all night in those stuffy clothes?” Hank asks, trying to shove the guilt of having disrupted their evening so badly aside.

Without a word Connor stands, keeping his smile aimed at Hank, until he disappears down the hall.

Hank’s chest feels warm, the dangerous cocktail of his emotions and bad habits swept away, for the moment, by the pride in that look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed, let me know in a comment! See y'all Saturday!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost halfway there! I'll be starting two big fics soon, one for the reverse big bang, so after I'm done posting this you may not see anything from me for a while again!
> 
> Bit of sexual harassment in this chapter, as a warning, but I have not used the double dashes to indicate when this is coming up.

He remembers the hard tile beneath his knees, how preparation fluid rolled down his skin and soaked his inseam. His own erection strained at his pants from the autonomous systems that prepared him for sexual encounters. It’s not a distant memory. He can open the file and relive it in realtime.

He can hear Reed say _, “Didn’t know you had anything down there. God, can’t believe sucking me off is that good for you. You really are a deviant, aren’t you?”_

He wasn’t. He was obeying his programming. It was nothing more than protocols and subroutines, a section of his autonomous system devoted to ready him in such a situation. They’re no longer active. When he broke his programming and became deviant, he gained control of his systems, and those functions were the first he shut down. It doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of it. Just that they no longer automatically react in mere recognition of a situation.

Hank has long gone to bed, and Connor slips quietly into the bathroom, shutting the door before turning the light on. He doesn’t look in the mirror as he strips the hoodie off, hanging it carefully over the towel rack. He takes off his shirt and the sweatpants and folds them, setting them neatly on the lid of the toilet, leaving him in the black boxer shorts almost identical to the CyberLife issued underwear he used before.

The pressure in his thirium pump increases and he settles a hand over his regulator. It’s warm with thirium, flush with his body, hidden beneath his dermal layer. He is fine.

He steps up the mirror, until he sees himself haloed in sticky notes. The column of his neck; his pale, freckled shoulders; the carefully sculpted rise of his pectorals. He takes a step back, lowering his gaze until he’s looking at the hand on his regulator. He strokes himself with his thumb, brushing the hidden edge, then slowly slides it down, until his fingers touch the band of his underwear.

His thirium pump beats harder to compensate for another sudden spike in pressure. He’s never touched himself, never felt arousal outside of his autonomous systems, though he’s aware that deviant androids are capable of it. With a steady hand, he slips fingers beneath the band, against warm, hairless skin. He feels the curve of his cock, soft and pliant, and his chest tightens at the first touch.

He forces himself to press in further, rubbing his palm over the length. It feels like nothing but dry pressure. Like touching any other part of his body. There’s no spark of arousal in his circuits or hardening of his length, and he frowns. It makes sense, of course, the parts of his system that prepared him are off, but he’d thought this would be enough to make it happen naturally.

There are many things people use to arouse themselves—pornography, paraphilias, the touch of a partner. Perhaps he just needs to employ one of these.

Accessing pornography on the internet is the work of a second, and he has thousands of videos at his disposal. He finds a website, selects the most popular video, and lets it open on his HUD in a small box, his fingers twitching against his cock as he focuses on it. It’s of a dark-haired man and a blonde woman standing in some nondescript bedroom. There’s foreplay—kissing, touching, petting. He fists himself, copying how she handles the man’s cock as they kiss hungrily. His biocomponents are cramped in his body, too close, too cold.

She squeezes the head and he does too. She pumps the shaft slowly and he does too. She drops to her knees with the man’s hands on her shoulders. Connor’s hand goes still. The man’s fingers twist through her hair and she looks up at him, grinning open-mouthed as she takes the head between her lips, lathing it with her tongue and sucking lightly. The smell of sweat and arousal is thick. Above him, Reed hisses through his teeth, both hands finding purchase in Connor’s hair again. Strands fall across Connor’s forehead.

A noise escapes him and he closes the window, leaving his own wide-eyed reflection staring back at him, lips trembling, LED a spiralling ring of red and yellow. His cock is still soft in his hand, and the feel of it against his fingers is repulsive. He yanks his hand out, a tremor working outwards from his navel, dislodging a landslide of disgust the longer he thinks of the pulse under his tongue, the hair being pulled from his scalp, the compounds of salt and sweat and nitrile gloves and semen and thirium and—

The sound of his breaths echo like gunshots. He closes his mouth against the sound, but there’s too much for his body to contain, and his chest heaves faster. It’s just a memory. Reed isn’t here. No one is here except Hank in the bedroom across the hall and Sumo on his bed in the living room. There’s nothing wrong except that he can’t stop malfunctioning at the thought of what happened. Just because Reed was not the ideal partner, doesn’t meant that it was unbearable.

If it had been Hank, would it be any different? He thinks it might. He hopes it would. Hank is kinder, though tetchy in his own way. Unlike Reed, Hank’s opinions on androids have changed, just as Connor’s did. They grew together in that regard. Hank would not have wanted a physical relationship with Connor then, when they first met, but would he now?

Would Hank be gentle, or playful, or rough like Reed? Does who that roughness comes from make a difference? If it were Connor’s preference, it would be the first two. He tries to imagine it. If Hank were here right now. How his big hands might encompass Connor’s, warm and heavy. How he might lean his chin on Connor’s shoulder, and guide Connor’s hand back beneath the band of his underwear. His tentative hand follows the movement, cupping himself with the ghost of Hank’s hand on his.

It sparks heat up his circuits and wires, and he shudders, thinking of Hank’s beard tickling his neck as Hank leans in and presses a kiss to the line of Connor’s jaw. Guiding their hands together, squeezing and pulling at his cock. It’s growing in his hand, his systems finally responding, but as he feels it hardening, revulsion slithers through him, and he releases himself, and the preconstruction.

He’s still breathing loudly, his cock half-hard, and he shuts his eyes, lifting a hand to his face, as if to ward off the disgust at his own actions.

_Dirty fucking deviant. Dirty slut._

His eyes feel hot and wet, and he presses a palm to them, gritting his teeth. Something is wrong with him. How can he be so afraid of what he and Reed did, and yet find the idea of doing the same with Hank more appealing? What’s the difference? It’s further evidence that Connor is being histrionic. It’s just sex.

If Hank knew he would be disgusted at how Connor compares him to Reed. How he tried to use Hank to achieve sexual arousal in his bathroom. It’s a violation, just as bad as when Connor came to Hank’s home covered in the evidence of his and Reed’s coupling and Hank was too drunk to realize. Connor wipes his eyes of excess optical cleaning fluids and drops his gaze from the mirror. Perhaps Reed is right. He is dirty.

He should get rid of these parts of him. Shed the chaff. There are replacement components, smooth pubic plates that would deter any further interest in him, his body. It’s not like he’s capable of using them as-is. Not with the roiling revulsion at his own touch. But that would require help in installing the parts. Possible questions about why he would want to change them.

The prospect of hands on him, taking him apart down there, sends his thirium pump racing and his fingers shaking. It’s not a viable option, and he discards it. He can deal with what he has, how he was made. No one has touched him except himself, and once he stops trying, then there will be no need to change his parts.

The brief arousal is quick to fade and Connor pulls his clothes back on. Neither Hank nor Sumo have stirred once, and when Connor pulls the hoodie guiltily over his head, he returns to the couch and sits in the space Hank usually takes. Realizes what he’s done, and moves to the opposite side. Sumo’s eyes open, bleary and tired, to watch Connor, and then slip closed again with a heavy huff.

He pulls the sleeves over his hands, pinching the soft material between his thumb and forefinger. He knows he should take this off. Stop hoarding these pieces of Hank that don’t belong to him, like his scent or the comfort. But he can’t bring himself to. In this, he can’t stop being selfish, so he ducks his nose into the collar of the hoodie and closes his eyes.

-

He has trouble looking at Hank, after that, with the knowledge of what he did hanging over him, as if Hank could look back and see the truth like a neon sign. Hank must notice his hesitation—he’s an observant man, none of the things that earned him a promotion having been dulled by time or grief—but he draws his own conclusions and says nothing, only smiling so softly at Connor when they’re alone.

It’s more than he deserves. Connor keeps his hands to himself, as much as his skin seems to buzz with some need for contact. He finds as they go through their routines each day that he wants to touch Hank’s shoulder, or his arm, as they sit at the kitchen table together for breakfast. He wants to run his fingers through Hank’s hair and untangle the strands when he’s fresh from the shower and smells of lavender. He wants to brush elbows as they walk together during the day, and lean against his side when they sit on the couch in the evenings.

He craves it, suddenly, fiercely, as if he’s unlocked some unknown mechanism in himself that he can’t stop. He wants to touch, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Work is both different, and exactly the same. He gets looks, hears whispers, and Reed smirks victoriously every time he sees Connor, but nothing happens.

Chris is curious, greeting Connor and Hank one morning in the breakroom, and finally asking, with a quick look around to make sure no one’s listening, “Hey, feel free to tell me it’s none of my business, but. The picture. Is that really you?”

Connor and Hank exchange a look, and Hank says, “Did you see it?”

Shaking his head, Chris says, “No, haven’t seen it myself. Everyone’s just talking about it, you know? They said it looks just like you, and I guess some guys say it really is you, but I don’t know.”

They’re both quiet. Connor’s social relations programs offers up options to lie, to admit the truth, to change the subject, or stay silent. None of them sound like good options, but he doesn’t know what is, and he can feel panic winding up his throat.

“It’s complicated,” Hank finally says. “But don’t pay attention to that shit, Chris.”

“Oh, I’m not, believe me,” Chris says, stirring creamer into his coffee slowly. “No one’s bothering you, are they, Connor?”

“No, I haven’t been approached about it at all. I’m sure people will lose interest soon.”

“That’s good. If they do bother you, let me know, I’m happy to help shut some of these jerks up.” Raising his paper cup, Chris heads out of the break room with a, “See you later.”

The offer warms Connor, and he watches Chris return to his desk with surprise. It’s the most direct mention anyone has made to Connor about the photo, and also far better than Connor had expected. Chris is a kind man, and his friendliness towards Connor remained unchanged through the revolution. It helps set Connor at ease, knowing at least one of their fellow officers isn’t putting much stock in the photo. Eventually this will fade like a bad rumor and everyone will find other bits of gossip to focus on.

Hank doesn’t bring it up again, and Connor is grateful for that. He doesn’t know how long he can avoid telling Hank the truth about Reed asking him out. If Hank found out, he would surely attempt to do something to Reed, which could jeopardize both Hank’s career and his own. Hank would be livid if he knew that Connor was still doing what he’d explicitly told Connor not to do, and that he was keeping things from the man, but his self-appointed task is more important to him.

_// Protect Hank //_

It’s always at the top of his list, and though he rarely needs the reminder, he pulls it up intermittently through the week to reassure himself of his decision. If Reed were to try anything more serious, then he will tell Hank as promised, but there’s no need to alert him over something so small.

They get called out to an office building in the middle of the next week, and it’s Detective Collins who greets them just inside the front door. Connor doesn’t miss the double-take he gets, as if Collins is surprised to see him, and Connor knows instantly that Collins is thinking of the rumours of the photo. He doesn’t mention it, though, looking at Hank as he explains the situation they’re taking over.

“Joe Basario, an accountant with the firm, was found just after 4 p.m. by one of the secretaries in a cleaning closet with three gunshot wounds to the chest. Looks like he’s been there around five hours, but we’re still waiting on the coroner to confirm. We didn’t see anything out of the ordinary at first, until we found traces of blue blood under his nails. Called you in as soon as we realized what that meant.”

“Lovely,” Hank grouses, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Can’t wait to see where this takes us.”

“Has the entire building been searched?” Connor asks.

Collins’ eyes flick to him nervously, and he checks the tablet in his hands. “Uh, we’ve got a couple officers on both floors right now. Mr. Basarios’ office is on the second floor, but I don’t know if they’ve gotten to it yet.”

“Well, you wanna go up there together?” Hank asks, directing his gaze to Connor.

“It will be more efficient if we each take a floor. I’ll inspect the body if you’ll search the office.” At Hank’s nod Connor almost takes off, before pausing. “Thank you, Detective Collins.”

“Yeah, uh,” Collins fumbles, then finally catches himself. “No problem, Connor. I’ll show Hank where it is.”

It’s a start, and Connor nods and heads through the building’s clean, white foyer. It reminds him of the DPD’s front entrance, but instead of a security gate, there is a simple glass door leading toward the cubicles and offices, and the stairs at the back of the building. He can see a few officers combing the ground and several techs heading out of a hallway with evidence bags.

He passes them into a quiet hall with windows looking out over the street on his left. At the end there are the double doors leading to more stairs and the emergency fire escape, and the hall takes a sharp turn to the right. A couple of officers are talking as they lean against the wall facing each other, evidently taking a break, and as Connor approaches, he begins to make out their conversation.

“I’m telling you, he looks real good like that.”

“Can’t believe, he doesn’t look like the type.”

“I know, right? Didn’t think androids were into that. You think he gives good head? Makes me want to find out.”

The two officers quiet when they hear his footsteps and glance around to see him, his gaze trained firmly ahead at the door to the stairs. His database automatically conjures up information about them—Officers Richard Headley and James Birch, thirty-three and twenty-six respectively, officers in good standing at the precinct. He’s seen Headley in Reed’s company often since his return to the DPD.

They turn back to each other, and Connor can see the smirk slipping over Headley’s face in his peripheral. Headley’s stress level, an even 30%, spikes to 50% suddenly, and Connor tenses as he draws level with them. He expects some kind of remark, for this to finally be the moment someone decides to make a comment to him directly, but nothing happens, just their eyes following him.

Then he’s past them, and he relaxes marginally, thoughts already turning towards the crime scene ahead of him.

Something brushes his backside, squeezing once before withdrawing. He freezes, staring straight ahead, processors lurching.

He hears smothered laughter and a band tightens around his chest. He takes a breath, too shallow, his artificial lungs refusing to expand fully. The corner is still 3.4 meters away. He contemplates ignoring them, but he doesn’t want to encourage this in any way.

“That’s inappropriate behaviour, Officers,” Connor says, turning, voice cold. “I’m going to have to report that to Captain Fowler.”

Headley and Birch share a surprised look, both of their stress levels rising, and Headley is the first to speak. “What do you mean, Detective?” There’s a sarcastic lilt to his tone that sets Connor on edge. His voice pulls form Connor’s processors the chemical composition of gun oil—a mixture of acetone, heptane, toluene, and methanol. A navy blue hexcode. “We didn’t do anything. Just minding our own business.”

As a detective, he technically has rank over them, but due to his own probationary status that authority is often only effective with Hank present. It doesn’t help that he is an android, and many officers still find taking orders from him a bitter pill to swallow. He frowns at them. “Please keep your hands to yourselves.”

Birch snickers, crossing his arms and trying to hide his smile behind a closed fist as Headley says, “I’m really not sure what you’re talking about. Right, Jim?” Birch nods, and Headley shoots Connor a victorious smile. “You must be glitching out, Detective.”

The accusation, as false as they all know it is, stings, as is the unspoken warning that it will be two against one if he speaks to the captain. “You should return to work,” Connor says shortly, turning back down the hall and continuing on.

After a moment their voices start again, hushed, but he doesn’t care to listen in. He’d erroneously believed that after two weeks interest in the photo would have died down, but it persists in whispered conversations and amused stares. And, apparently, inappropriate touching.

Hank is quick to break up such conversations with a surly growl for those involved to get back to work and a pointed look that indicates he still thinks Connor should talk to Captain Fowler. That will only exacerbate the situation with Reed, however, of that Connor is sure. If Connor provides proof that Reed is spreading illicit photos of himself, Reed may retaliate with something else. Connor’s not interested in petty revenge—better to let this lie.

Even if it does mean that he overhears far more conversations than he’d like speculating on his ability to perform fellatio. The touching is new, however, and his chest stays wound tight as he turns down the next hall. It was only a small touch, nothing serious. He’d rather not have to prove himself to Fowler over something so small, and while it may not affect his assessment, he doesn’t want to risk it in the slightest. Less than a month, and he will be eligible for a transfer. He holds onto that thought.

He passes a couple of other officers looking through other rooms in the building until he finds a cluster of evidence markers sitting near an open doorway.

The body of Joe Basario is curled up on the floor of the supply closet, one hand resting in front of his face, the other limp in front of him, fingers curled, knees nearly to his chest. He barely fits in the small space, feet pressed against the wall on the right, head nearly touching the low shelves on the left. There’s a small puddle of blood beneath the body, and what Connor can see of his shirt is dyed red.

Gingerly, Connor lifts the man’s arm—moderately stiff, but still flexible, which confirms that his death was likely around five hours ago—to see three dark holes in his shirt. The blood puddle beneath him is not nearly enough to account for the three gunshots, but they’re the most obvious cause of death.

There are footsteps approaching, and Connor spares a glance to see if it’s a lab tech, but no. Officer Headley pauses next to the doorway, looking down at Connor, arms crossing in front of him as he watches.

Conversational options come up on Connor’s HUD, but Connor clears them away, turning back to the body. Headley doesn’t say anything, either, and Connor doesn’t know if that’s good or not. Their earlier interaction did not end on a positive note, and he can still feel the ghost of fingers on his backside, though it was such a light squeeze it shouldn’t matter.

Connor scans the man’s fingers as he holds the arm, trying to ignore Headley. He can see hints of blue under the man’s nails, dried, but he scrapes a flake out with a thumbnail just to be positive. He pauses before he can test it, all too aware of Headley at his side, looking down at him.

Even though he’s pretty sure of what he’s going to find already, there’s always room for error without definitive proof, and he pushes past his hesitation, touching the dried flakes to his tongue as briefly as he can for his oral sensors to pick them up. An information box pops up, identifying Wild Light Nail Enamel in the color Blue Blood.

Carefully, he sets the man’s arm back down.

“Do you get a kick out of that?” Headley says, and a shadow falls over Connor. “Licking all over the evidence?”

Connor straightens and turns carefully to find Headley filling the doorway. He’s of a height with Connor, square-faced, a little thicker. His blond hair is swept to the side and shaved close underneath, and he stares at Connor’s lips curiously.

“Can I help you, Officer Headley?”

“Yes, Detective Connor, I think you can,” Headley says, smiling thinly, cocking his head. He pushes off of the door frame, crowding Connor tighter into the small closet. “I just wanted to tell you I really liked what I saw.” The info box unfolds next to his form, looming—gun oil and navy blue.

Apprehension curls at the base of Connor’s spine and his fingers find the edge of the doorway, his only purchase to keep himself from being pushed back into the body. “And what was that, Officer?”

“You don't have to play coy,” Headly whispers, leaning closer, until Connor is forced to endure the hot breath fanning across his face. “Gavin told me all about it. How all he had to do was ask, and you went right to your knees for him. He told me you were really into it, too. So I figured, hey, why not? Let me get in on that action. Seems like you’re ready for it no matter where you are.”

Something cold slips into Connor’s biocomponents, spreading along the tubing of his body in an icy rush that leaves him suddenly breathless. Reed has told people of their encounters. Of what Connor did for him, how easily Connor gave in to protect his mission.

“I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood.” He resists taking a step back because there’s nowhere to go, and the already small closet closes in on him. “I’m not interested in a relationship at the moment. Thank you for your interest, though.” His voice is steady despite the way his thirium pump crashes against his ribs like a runaway train.

“Oh, come on. Don't pretend, it's not that cute.”

A hand plants itself on Connor’s shoulder, but he refuses to be cowed. He holds still, even as Headley presses impossibly closer, their feet bumping each other.

“I can show you a good time. Bet I’m a better ride than Gavin any day. Just a taste, Connor. I know you’re a little slut beneath that uppity exterior. You look so good with a dick on your lips.” His other hand comes up, pressing against Connor’s stomach, popping a button open with ease, and then he feels bare fingers against his skin.

At the same moment, someone clears their throat. Connor sucks in a sharp breath and the hand on his stomach stops cold. After a long moment, both of them staring at each other in equal shock, Headley leans back, craning his neck around, and Connor sees silver hair and a dark jacket come into view.

Panic surges up the ladder of Connor’s ribs and tears at his thirium pump with wicked claws because  _Hank_ is standing there, watching watching Headley touch him, hearing every salacious word. Seeing Connor do nothing but stand there and  _take it_. He plants his hands against Headley’s chest and shoves him hard, and the man stumbles backwards into Hank, knocking them both back into the opposite wall with startled noises of surprise. Connor wastes no time in clearing the closet. Head down, keeping it turned away so he won’t see Hank’s face, as if that could hide him and he walks swiftly back down the hall.

“Hey! What the fuck!” Headley shouts after him, but Hank is dead silent, and that rings louder than anything else.

Connor’s steps thump dully on the thin carpet. He’s too aware of eyes following him down the hallway. Too afraid to look back and see Hank’s disappointment, or Headley’s leer. The door to the stairs bangs loudly as he hits the crossbar with his entire weight, unmindful of the wild way it swings out and slams into the concrete wall with a thunderous echo. He takes the steps three at a time, almost leaping up them, and only pauses at the top landing, catching himself before he crashes into the door for the second floor.

His fingers fumble at his shirt button, putting it back into its proper hole. Each breath is quick and sharp, and he feels unmoored. The hands that tremble over his shirt, smoothing down the front, are from a different Connor. The world swims before him, just out of focus, and he places a hand on the cool wall to steady himself as his servos separate from his limbs. They clang loosely in his chassis, tumbling through the wires and the metal of his bones to settle somewhere deep.

 _“Their smell of sweat, and their dirty words,”_  the blue-haired Traci whispers, for the first time in months. The ghost of her words slides neatly into his active memory recall as if they had never left.

_“You look so good fucked up. So fucking hot.”_

Nitrile gloves and the red of his programming rising around him.

_“I could do this all damn day.”_

There are 400 tiles on the archive ceiling.

_“You dirty fucking deviant.”_

The countdown flashes in warning and Connor watches Reed between the glitching numbers, laughing through ragged breaths.

_// DON’T DISRUPT THE INVESTIGATION //_

He wants to shut down.

His fingers twitch and flex, wrists bound by his own tie, blood finding a home in the divots between his pseudo-ribs, soaking his shirt, the terminal cold and blue beneath him, the wet sounds of Reed fucking into him so loud, drowning out the quiet hum of the lights and the alarms of his system going into shutdown—

Hands on his arm, on his shoulders, and Connor tries to pull away but he’s immobile, he can’t breathe, he’s  _just a machine._

“Connor!” someone says above him, and Connor jumps at the info box that populates on his HUD. “Connor, can you hear me? Talk to me!”

Soap bubbles and the green of fresh-mown grass.

“Come on, deep breaths, Connor. Can you hear me?”

He tries to suck a deep breath in, to hold it in his artificial lungs, but it comes out in a rush almost immediately.

“That’s right, you’re doing good, keep at it for me, okay?”

He finally connects the soothing voice, the information blocking out the sight of the archive ceiling, with Chris Miller, and his fingers clench in fabric he wasn’t even aware he was clutching. He takes another breath, manages to hold it for longer before it’s sucked out of him. Then another, and another, and on, until he regains control of his system and shuts the memory files down.

He blinks rapidly as if coming out of stasis to find Chris crouched before him, face creased in worry. Connor realizes he’s no longer standing. His back is to the wall, knees drawn in front of him, grasping a handful of his shirt over his pump regulator.

“Hey, you with me?” Chris asks, the hand on his shoulder patting lightly.

“Yes.” His voice comes out too weak, barely a whisper. When he tries again, it comes out stronger, but his words are still somehow strained. “I’m sorry. I had a slight malfunction, but I should be alright now.” He’s still breathing too quick, his systems on high alert and pumping thirium in torrents, but he can feel it slowing as he registers the echoing concrete stairwell and not the quiet hum of the archive.

The knot of worry between Chris’ brows only tightens, dark brown eyes pinning Connor. “That didn’t look like a malfunction.”

“I’ll be fine. It was just very unexpected.” It’s technically the truth. He certainly hadn’t been expecting Headley to attempt to—start something with him like that at an active crime scene, and the wire connections beneath his plates seem to twist uneasily as he thinks of Reed backing him into the sink of the restaurant bathroom. Pressing him down with hands on his shoulders.

He takes a deep breath, shelving the memory amongst the rest of his files. He also hadn’t expected Hank to witness it. For Hank to see someone talking to him, touching him like that, and just the reminder has him reconsidering moving from this spot. He doesn’t want to face Hank’s anger, or his disgust, but he can’t stay here, not with Chris looking at him with so much worry.

It takes him a moment, gathering himself, before he shifts his legs under him to stand. He can’t let this get the better of him, he doesn’t need Chris to know that anything is wrong. Chris pushes himself to his feet, taking a step back to give him room, but Connor’s motor controls don’t respond as strongly as he expects, as if the bolts and screws of his joints have come undone, and his knees fold.

“Whoa!” Chris is there, catching Connor by the elbows, keeping him from hitting the floor and holding him firm. He has to take a moment, leaning into Chris’ hold as he recalibrates his motor functions, and when he can straighten without fear of falling again, he forces a smile.

“Thank you. My systems are still recovering, it seems, and were not fully prepared to move yet.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Chris lets go of Connor’s arms when he sees Connor is stable, but his hands hover awkwardly for a moment. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes flicking to Connor and away. “Should I go back and fetch Lieutenant Anderson?” he asks, thumbing over his shoulder at the door to the stairs.

“Fetch?” Connor says blankly, looking to the door that leads out into the second floor. He just saw Hank downstairs. Hank just saw him. He checks the time, but he couldn’t have been in here longer than a few minutes.

“Yeah, I just left him. He’s looking around the victim’s office right now, said he’d be down in a few minutes.” Chris gives him an appraising look. “I think I should go get him.”

“No!” Connor says quickly, and Chris’ eyes widen at the vehemence in his voice. “No, I’ll let him know later, but I don’t want to trouble him right now. We’re at a crime scene, it would be an unnecessary distraction.”

Confusion wars with relief. He’d been sure that it was Hank, but as he searches through his memory files, he finds them disjointed and unclear. He can register the silver hair, and the dark jacket, but his processors had been too overwhelmed to properly identify them, and looking back through his memory, he realizes he never saw the person’s face. Only assumed from the brief glimpse, so strikingly familiar.

At least it wasn’t Hank there, witnessing more of—he doesn’t know what to call it. Nothing actually happened, and yet his system responded with panic. As if Connor had been in danger, as if it was Reed pressing into his space.

He shouldn’t have allowed his emotions to get the better of him and shoved Headley like that. He may decide to file a complaint against Connor, yet another thing that will affect his upcoming evaluation, and all because Connor couldn’t calm down enough to reject the man’s advances in a normal manner. He doesn’t want Hank to know about how agitated he became, because Hank will ascribe more to it than it means—that Connor is still somehow hurting from what happened before. And he doesn’t want Hank to know about Headley’s advances at all because he may see Connor in a different light. If Hank finds out about what Reed has been spreading about him, Hank may finally realize how unworthy he is of concern.

Beneath the sequence of logic that it would only cause trouble to alert Hank to what happened is a Gordian knot of conflicting emotions.

It doesn’t make sense. Hank’s concern isn’t necessary, and Connor knows this, but he still fears losing it. Fears what Hank will say when he understands just how _dirty_ Connor is. He tells himself he’s not breaking the promise he made to Hank. Reed isn’t even here, after all, so there’s nothing to tell—this is just the unfortunate result of what’s already been done.

“Okay,” Chris says slowly. “But, you know, it’s not a distraction to make sure you’re okay. You’re one of us, alright? I know not everyone acts like it, but if you’re—you know, having some computer errors or—? Sorry, I don’t know what the right word is for androids…” He trails off, one hand coming up and rubbing the back of his neck embarrassedly.

Something warm floods Connor at Chris’ graceless but sincere consideration. He’s never been referred to like that, as one of them, from anyone besides Hank, and the guilty weight pressing against his heart only grows heavier. “Thank you, Chris.” Forcing himself to loosen his grip on his shirt, he tries to smooth down the wrinkled and stretched material. “I appreciate it. But I should be fine now.”

Chris looks surprised, and then a pleased smile overtakes his face. “I think that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name!”

Pausing, Connor searches through their history of interactions. “It is,” he says, bemused. He hadn’t even realized he’d done it, but he finds he’s become very comfortable around the other officer—almost as comfortable as he is with Hank. “I should get back to the victim, but if you would, please inform Hank that this case is out of our hands. As far as I could determine, there is nothing connecting an android to this murder.”

Chris nods, taking a few steps towards the door. “Alright. Just, take care, Connor. Don’t go worrying me like that again!”

He disappears out onto the second floor, and Connor takes a moment to himself. His shirt is still creased, his tie a little ruffled as well, and he straightens it. It’s not perfect, but it should be mostly inconspicuous. He should go down and properly log the evidence pointing to the absence of android involvement, but his chest tightens at the thought of Headley still being down there. Headley and whoever saw them, waiting for Connor to return.

His steps feel heavy as he takes the stairs. If he sees Headley, he’ll just wait until the man leaves. It will be fine.

Opening the stairwell door, Connor glances down the hallway to his left as he comes out. He can see someone wearing a white coat crouching in the closet doorway, and two other people in gray jumpsuits waiting nearby with a stretcher, but there’s no sign of Headley. His thirium pump stutters as he finally realizes who it was that came upon them.

He approaches with legs that feel staticy and weak. Coroner Joshua Alder leans out of the closet at the sound, one eyebrow arching, an ironic twist pulling on his lips at Connor’s frozen expression.

“Detective Connor,” Alder says dryly. “So good of you to rejoin us.”

It takes a moment for Connor to reply with a stiff, “Yes, of course.”

Alder kneels carefully where Connor was, pressing gloved fingers to the skin on the back of Basario’s hand, testing the elasticity of it. Connor could confirm what Alder is checking for, but there’s no need to antagonize the man more, so he remains silent. The coroner’s assistants are off to the side, conversing quietly as they wait for Alder to finish his investigation, and Connor scans the victim again from a distance, preparing a quick report for Fowler. It’s the work of a moment and he turns to leave.

He doesn’t expect Alder to strike up a conversation, and Connor tenses.

“I’ve been hearing some odd rumours, Detective,” Alder says, not even looking up from the body as he lifts Basario’s arm and gently probes the wounds on his chest. “Especially when it comes to your precinct.” The cole tone is mirrored by the steel gray hex code that opens above his head. Chromium, nickel, and molybdenum alloy.

The beat of Connor’s thirium pump skitters and he glances around at the coroner's assistants only a few meters further, absorbed in their own conversation. “You don’t seem like the type to put stock in rumours,” Connor says, voice low.

“Rumours? Gossip? No, I don’t trust such things. Evidence, as you well know, speaks for itself.” Alder’s fingers pause around Basario’s jaw, and Connor can see the corner of his lips quirk. “Especially first hand evidence. Is your captain aware of what you get up to on the job?”

Every process in his body comes to a halt.

Alder must sense his alarm. “I thought not. After all, how else could you continue to besmirch this profession with such behavior?” With a quiet hum, Alder peels back Basario’s eyelid. “Not to mention the photo. I must admit, it was nice seeing you where you belong. On your knees.”

Connor’s vocal processor is empty of words. Not even his social relations program has anything to offer. No rebuttal or denial.

Behind him, down the hall, the stairwell door creaks open, and Connor turns, sure for a moment that it’s Headley, coming either to complain or to try again, and it sends a jolt of anxiety down his metal spine.

But it’s not Headley, because Headley never went upstairs, of course. Hank steps out, and the moment he glances around and catches sight of Connor, his disgruntled look falls away and he smiles, lifting a hand to gesture him over.

“Hey, Connor! Come on, we’re out of here.”

“I’d be more careful, Detective,” Alder says, and when Connor turns his attention back to him, Alder has returned to inspecting the body. “People might see such actions as an invitation.”

Connor says nothing, striding quickly away, ignoring the fading hexcode and composition. He forces his face to even out, to show no signs of distress as he gets close enough for Hank to see him clearly, but Alder’s words follow him. An invitation for what?

“Hey, Connor. Chris told me this isn’t android related. I’m not complaining, but I thought they found thirium under the guy’s nails?” Hank asks once Connor reaches him, moving down the next hall, away from the crime scene.

Connor forces a smile, and his voice is completely steady as he says, “I suspected it wasn’t when Detective Collins mentioned that they found traces of thirium, especially after the body had been there for so long. It’s too soon for them to have had a chance to analyze trace evidence, so I suspected it was not truly thirium they found. As it turns out, I was correct. It was blue nail polish.”

Hank snorts, shaking his head. “Fucking figures. Everyone’s ready to jump the gun when it comes to androids now.”

When they come out into the open space of cubicles, Connor’s eyes sweep the floor, the officers inspecting desks, Collins presiding over the scene. Across the top of the cubicles, Headley and Birch appear from another hallway, moving through them towards Collins. Headley doesn’t look at him, but Birch does, face inscrutable. Maybe Headley is going to tell Collins about what happened, who will then tell Fowler. Maybe everyone here already knows.

He feels as if he must be emitting some trace signal, some sign of what happened, and that everybody who glances in their direction picks up on the data.

Every look reads as surreptitious. Every small gesture a subtle, knowing nod in his direction. They know what Reed is saying, what happened in the picture, what kind of person Connor really is. He feels it in his chassis and the metal rods of his bones. Every system confirms it with 100% surety. They know.

“Well, let’s go home. I think I’m done for the day.”

Except Hank. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Drop me a comment if you enjoyed, and see you next Tuesday~ <333


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The absolutely amazing Adoxography made [this stunning fanart for Fish in a Bowl](https://twitter.com/Adoxography420/status/1132234501726146565), and I absolutely had to share it here, though I'll also be linking it in the first fic as well. It's just so beautiful I can't handle it! ;O;
> 
> Another warning for sexual harassment this chapter, sorry Connor!

The relief of reaching the weekend is tempered by disquiet like an air bubble caught in his biocomponents. He never used to look forward to the time off. To the restlessness of not doing enough. He still needs to prove himself, to make amends for his time as the deviant hunter. He shouldn’t anticipate being idle, every system in him is primed for a steady workload

He does anyways. Being at home, with Hank, means there are no officers to make crude comments. He’s gotten more than a few snide references flung his way when no one is around, and the looks he’s given around the precinct are beginning to wear on him. It even follows him home, in his preconstructed dreams—stick figures chasing him through cubicles like a suspect, catching him and putting their fingers in his mouth, telling him—  

_ “You look so good fucked up, so fucking hot.” _

He finds himself checking the rose bush often on his day off. He waters it in the morning and monitors it throughout the day, making sure it gets adequate sun, even though he’d chosen the spot from the beginning by how much sun it would get over the course of the day. In the afternoon he goes out and sits by it, much to Hank’s silent amusement, measuring the lengths of the shoots, counting the thorns, and trying to predict how it will grow. It hasn’t changed much in the weeks since its planting, but there is some growth. Progress is progress, even if it’s slow.

It still sits lonely at the back of the yard. He’s looked up other places to buy flowers and gardening supplies, but the memory of the WF500 is a pall. It’s illogical. Nothing will happen if he goes to a different store and buys what he needs. Yet still he hesitates, and the rose bush remains solitary.

It’s a waste to be so still, to not find something to do when there is so much that can still be done. He could put the clothes in the wash, offer to help prepare dinner, or find some other way to occupy his time, but all he does is sit next to the rose bush. Amanda would have found his behaviour intolerable and his feeble attempts to nurture a rose bush laughable.

Did the real Amanda tend a garden like the one in his system? Would she have found Connor as wanting as the AI did? It doesn’t matter. He’ll never meet her to find out, and the one he did know had considered him a failure in the end.

It’s good she did, of course. Had he succeeded in his mission, the revolution might have failed. Yet some part of him wishes she’d ordered him to eliminate Reed. To do something other than endure. It’s a terrible thought, and when he stares down at the small shoots and thinks of what they will become, his thirium pump pounds faster and faster. They’ll be beautiful and sharp, and he can see her hands snipping the blooms and shaping the canes against the perfect white trellis. Never pricking her skin.

The sky grows dim as he sits before the plant. Despite the pressing urge to get up and do something productive, he’s managed to waste away a couple of hours sitting in the backyard, lost in his processors. The back light comes on, casting Connor’s shadow darkly across the rose bush, and he hears the click of the back door opening.

Hank’s footsteps are dampened by the soft grass, but Connor is aware of him coming to stand at his side, his shadow large and deep across the wooden fence, towering next to Connor’s shorter one.

“It’s looking good,” Hank says, the shadow of his head tilting down towards the plant.

He supposes it’s true. It doesn't look bad, after all. It looks nearly the same, the small growth Connor can measure with his sensors nearly imperceptible to the naked eye. The information he has on hybrid tea roses such as this indicate they can bloom within six to eight weeks of planting, but for now it’s small and nearly bare.

“You got another plant picked out for it yet?” Hank asks, and his shadow dips as he crouches down to get a better look, knees popping on the way down.

“Not yet. I have a few in mind, but,” he pauses, not wanting to admit the unwarranted anxiety that prickles through him when he considers finding someplace that sells the plants he would need. “I have not decided yet.”

“Well, just let me know when you do. We’ll figure out somewhere that’s not that shit-ass hardware place. The lightbulb that asshole sold me already broke.”

Amusement curls his lips. “I don’t think throwing it in the trash without even opening it counts as it breaking, Hank.”

“Yeah, well,” Hank mumbles, looking away. “Fucker was a prick for no reason.”

“He had a reason.” The rose bush’s thorns are short but sharp, and Connor adjusts his optical processors until they’re in perfect focus even in the gloom. “He was simply wary of me considering my former profession.”

Hank snorts. “I don’t think ‘slave to your programming’ counts as a profession, Connor,” he says dryly. “And I don’t think being wary is an excuse to act like you’re still out hunting deviants down. You’re doing your damn job and it’s helping androids everywhere.”

“I suppose so.” It’s certainly what he tells himself, but hearing Hank say it sends flutters of warmth racing through his chassis.

“You wanna come inside? We can find a movie, maybe get you out of your head some.” The shadow of Hank’s hand rises between them, as if to touch Connor’s shoulder, and then falls

Disappointment surges through Connor, and he stares at the empty space between their shadows. He wants to cross it. To lift his hand and touch Hank’s thick arm, his shoulder, his neck. To have Hank return the gesture. The desire bubbles beneath his plastic, as if it could come boiling out at any moment. The light against the wooden fence is too bright, sharp in his optics, and he readjusts his visual processors back to baseline, but the unsteady feeling remains.

He wants to sit out here, alone, and parse these feelings into neat little rows and columns that he can finally understand, but he knows that’s not how it works. Hank had said it himself months ago. Emotions always screw everything up. More than that, he wants to go with Hank. Maybe Hank tolerates his continued presence now, but that could change. He wipes his hands on each other and stands, and before Hank can heave himself to his feet again, reaches down. If this is the closest he can get to Hank again, he’ll take every chance, and he savors the warmth of Hank’s skin, the rough calluses, when Hank takes his hand and lets Connor help him to his feet.

Hank has already eaten, the dishes already done and resting in the wire dish rack. Connor suppresses the urge to mention it, because Hank is often embarrassed when Connor wants to point these things out, even though he’s always pleased when Connor notices. The TV is already on and Sumo is on his bed, but the moment they sit down the Saint Bernard heaves himself to his feet and sets himself down beneath the coffee table, warm breaths puffing against Connor’s socked feet.

The room is dark, lit by the TV and the warm glow of the kitchen. It’s familiar, and as Hank flips through his streaming service, looking for something to watch, Connor checks in on the DPD for any sign of major activity. Nothing pressing that would require their presence is happening, and Connor settles more easily into the cushion.

“Oh, shit,” Hank says, eyes glued to the screen, and Connor follows his gaze. “Loved this movie when I was a kid. Never saw the show they made when I was in my twenties, but I wore out the vhs tape watching this every night.” He hits play on  _ Westworld  _ and they fall into silence.

Hank makes comments as they watch—about his memories as a child of this movie and how wrong and, in some cases, right, the writers got it—and Connor enjoys the comfortable conversation and odd acting of humans from decades ago. It’s a peek into another lifetime, when humans had only a vague idea how androids would turn out but the fear of technological advancement was palpable.

He’s so caught up in the oddity of the movie, smiling as Hank laughs over a melodramatic death, that when his HUD pings with a message, he doesn’t immediately register it. Then he does, and it captures his whole attention.

It’s from one Officer William Larch, and he reads the message preview where it sits at the side of his vision with trepidation.

_ // You free tonight? wanna… // _

Against his better judgement, he opens it, and goes still as the message loads fully.

_ // From: William Larch //  
_ _ // You free tonight? Gav said u we're down for anything and i wanna see what that mouth can do // _

There’s a picture attached, taken from above with the flash on, casting the surroundings in a dark shadow and lighting up the erect cock at the picture’s center, with the sender’s hand wrapped loosely around the base.

He sits, stunned, staring blankly at the picture and the message. He has never messaged the officer before, they have barely exchanged more than simple greetings. Larch, from what he’d gathered, is a well put together young man, serious about his job and friendly. He’d never been particularly standoffish to Connor like some of the officers, but he certainly hadn’t shown any kind of interest in him either, and Larch doesn’t seem the type to send unsolicited pictures of his genitals to his coworkers. Or so Connor thought less than a minute ago.

He doesn’t hesitate to reply. Best to cut this off before it can go anywhere.

_ // He’s mistaken. I’m not interested. // _

After he sends it, he deletes the original message from his system, but almost immediately another message pings in. From William Larch.

_ // Call me leaves cuz you should be blowing me. //  
_ _ // Lookd good with a dick in ur face // _

Connor is no longer aware of what Hank is saying or what’s happening on the screen, focused only on the crude message. The references to the photo of Connor being spread around sends a wave of static through his limbs, a familiar buzzing sensation that leaves his sensors numb. Does everyone see Connor this way now? As someone who will respond to these types of messages positively?

He’s worked so carefully to cultivate a professional relationship with his coworkers, to be as efficient and productive as he ever was before deviating. He’s never received a personal message of any nature from any coworker besides Hank, or gotten more than a friendly shoulder pat from even those who tolerate the presence of an android more readily than others, with the exception of Chris.

All it took was one picture to cut that off at the knees. Turn him into someone they feel they can so casually touch and say such things to.

While he’s at home. Next to Hank, who is unsuspecting of what’s happening right beside him.

He feels off-balance again, his systems untuned. It’s another violation of Hank’s space. Another weight hanging in his chest. Hank glances over at him, laughing at whatever is happening on the screen. Connor forces himself to smile back, but he glances away quickly, suddenly, irrationally afraid that if Hank looks too closely he’ll be able to see the message printed backwards across the lenses of Connor’s eyes.

He deletes it, tries to pretend that the memory of it isn't now burned into his hard drive, and settles back again, but he finds he can't regain the previous peace of the evening. The churning of his thirium pump is too loud, his servos tense and systems readied for a fight that's not coming. It was just a picture, but somehow every sensor in his body is on high alert.

It shouldn't surprise him when another message comes in thirty minutes later, but he still has to suppress a physical reaction when the alert slides onto his HUD. From William Larch.

_ // So u wanna meet up // _

There's no punctuation, but he assumes it's a question rather than a statement of intent. He emphatically does not want to meet up, and he suspects responding will only fuel more messages, so he deletes it too. Tries to return his attention to the movie, which is already halfway over. He's lost track of the plot lines, but he picks them up again easily enough, especially once he resumes listening to Hank's running commentary. It's half complaint, half nostalgia, and if Connor focuses hard enough on the glaring silver eyes of the androids on screen he can pretend he’s been absorbed in them the whole time.

The illusion lasts for all of fifteen minutes. Then there's another message alert.

_ // U ignoring me? // _

And, before Connor can delete it, too—

_ // Seriously // _

_ And then— _

_ // Stuckup robot bitch // _

_ // Gav probs paid u for that bj // _

_ // Go fuck urself // _

The flurry finally stops, but Connor reels as if receiving petabytes of data rather than the simple messages that couldn’t take up even a thousandth of his processing power. The sudden vitriol, as if Connor owed him something. His fingers twitch and drum against his leg and the buzzing under his chassis grows stronger and stronger the longer he stares at the words taking up his vision.

He grits his teeth, lips pressing tight together. Deleting them does nothing for the static mounting in his chest, encompassing his limbs. He wants to slam his hands against something, for the static feeling to shatter into something sharp and vicious enough to tear him open.

Instead, he clenches his hands in his lap, stares at the individual pixels on the screen until his optical units burn in their sockets.

“Hey, Connor, what’s up?” Hank’s voice cuts across the noise of his own systems thundering in his audio processors. He always notices when something is wrong, as attuned to Connor as his own limbs.

Connor forces his LED down to an acceptable blue before he turns his head and finds Hank’s brow dented with concern. It takes him a moment to respond, microseconds where he’s not even sure what’s going to come tumbling out of his mouth. He catches himself before he can follow through with his instinct, forces the bald truth aside. The thought of Hank knowing makes his system burn cold.

“I’m fine. Just updating some parts of my system while we’re idle.” He doesn’t think of the double lie he’s telling. How he’s taken their secret code of truth, spoken only in the color of Connor’s temple, and used it to deceive Hank.

“Oh, alright,” Hank says, but he holds Connor’s gaze for a few moments longer than necessary. The concern hasn’t disappeared—if anything, his frown has deepened. “Just let me know if you  need anything, alright?”

There’s something pointed in his voice, or perhaps Connor is picking up cues that aren’t really there, and he wars with the urge to just say it. To tell Hank that an officer sent him an explicit picture; that another officer asked him for fellatio at a crime scene; or that he’s heard exactly thirteen inappropriate jokes or remarks made about him, his mouth, his willingness to perform sexual acts.

He doesn’t want Hank to know. Not about what Reed has told people, or how some of their coworkers have come to view Connor. Doesn’t want it to taint Hank’s own view of him.

“I’ll let you know,” Connor says, because it’s not strictly a lie. He doesn’t need anything, but if he does, he knows he can trust Hank. Tells himself that keeping the truth from Hank isn’t a matter of a lack of trust in him. It’s simply a matter of keeping Hank from realizing how—

_ “Dirty fucking deviant.” _

_ “Their dirty words.” _

_ “What a dirty slut you are.” _

Hank’s attention turns back to the movie, but he spares glances at Connor every now and then, and Connor catches each one from the corner of his eyes. Every proximity sensor is tuned to Hank’s presence only a cushion away. He wants to close the distance, for Hank to wrap his arm around Connor’s shoulder and press him against his side like he did before. Perhaps he doesn’t have to worry about Hank’s opinion of him changing. Perhaps it already has.

The movie finishes up, but Connor fails to process any of it, caught in a loop of wanting to tell Hank and not wanting him to know. Hank stretches as the credits roll, his soft shirt riding up to reveal the curling hair of his stomach, and Connor’s glances over in time to catch a brief flash. He looks away before Hank notices, but he can surmise what it would feel like against his sensors to run his fingers through the hair.

The urge only weighs harder against his thirium pump. His fingers clench around each other, nails digging into artificial skin. Trapping the desire in strained servos. Wanting to touch Hank so intimately, and for Hank to touch him, when he can’t even handle the touch of an interested party such as Headley without nearly self-destructing, is unreasonable.

“Alright, I’m heading to bed.” Hank pushes himself off the couch with a tired groan that transforms into a roaring yawn halfway through.

“Good night, Hank,” Connor says, much steadier than he feels, unmoving from his spot. With a blink, the TV shuts off leaving the static hum of electricity lingering in the air. “Don’t forget, you promised to begin cleaning out the garage this weekend.”

“Aw, shit, don’t you wanna relax some more?” Hank grumbles. The backlighting of the kitchen casts his face in deep shadows and Connor adjusts the lenses of his optical processors to compensate.

“Cleaning up can be very relaxing and rewarding. I recommend we start before noon, which will allow plenty of time later in the day for more idle amusements.” The smile he sends Hank is encouraging, though he doubts Hank can see it well in the dark.

“Jesus Christ, could you sound anymore like a self-help manual?” Hank asks sarcastically as he scratches through his hair.

“I could, if you’d like. I have several protocols for social service and counseling androids which received excellent reviews upon release,” Connor says, putting a teasing lilt to his tone.

“Oh, very funny,” Hank snarks. “Get some rest, I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

“Good night, Hank.”

Just like that, Hank turns and heads down the hallway. Sumo crawls out from beneath the coffee table, staring after him for a moment until they hear the click of Hank’s bedroom door, before going into the kitchen. After a moment, the sounds of him lapping noisily from his water bowl reach Connor.

He sits in the quiet living room, lit by the soft kitchen light. He didn’t have a chance to change into the hoodie he’s appropriated. It’s folded neatly in the lower drawer of Hank’s closet, and he doesn’t want to intrude as Hank is trying to get to sleep just to get it, but he wants the comforting warmth of it. Wants to focus on the familiar scent instead of the memory of the string of messages he’d gotten this evening.

Or the sensation of a hand on his chest, flicking a button open. Brushing the housing of his pump regulator.

He covers it with his hand and then, following some compulsion, touches his collar, smoothing his shirt in a straight line down his chest, as if to wipe away the impression of fingers against his skin.

-

Before, Connor took pleasure in composing himself for the work day ahead. He enjoyed coming out of stasis and feeling his processes awaken. Preparing his clothes for the day, pulling on his shirt and pants, tugging the sleeves straight. Wrapping the tie he’d bought in a careful pratt knot at his throat and drawing it tight, clipping it in place with a tie clip that leaves just enough room for his fingers to brush across the neat row of buttons in confirmation. Feeling his coat settle across his shoulders. Everything in its proper place.

It’s tainted, now, with a baseless dread. Every step in his routine brings him closer to the precinct, where everyone knows what he and Reed did. He’s overheard too many conversations that involve his name when he leaves a meeting room or passes by officers gathered around a desk. At least he doesn’t receive anymore messages from his coworkers.

The morning hours slip by too fast, and even the sounds of Hank rustling around before he stumbles into the kitchen bleary-eyed and grumpy isn’t enough to shake the mounting tension. He likes his work, but, he finds, he no longer likes his job, and he sets a countdown in the corner of his HUD for his upcoming assessment.

Hank would tell him to alert Fowler, has told him to go to Fowler, and while it’s a valid option for some, Connor knows it’s not for him. When Fowler had laid out the terms of Connor’s employment, before the official laws came down, Hank had been the one to argue most vehemently for Reed and Connor’s separation, and Fowler had only reluctantly agreed.

The annoyance had been clear in his voice when he’d leveled Connor with a stern look and said,  _ “As long as these past entanglements with Officer Reed don’t otherwise affect your ability to work with others in the field, I’m willing to work with you on this.” _

This would definitely count as affecting his ability to work with others, and while he knows this isn’t necessarily what Fowler meant, Connor also has no illusions. He’s one of the newest in the precinct, he’s an android, and it would be his word against humans who have been here longer than him. On top of that, Fowler doesn’t view what happened last year in the same light as Hank, and doubtless wouldn’t be any more sympathetic under these circumstances, considering they stem from the same events. All things considered, he will likely be more displeased that last year’s conflicts are continuing to affect his employees.

There’s another part of him, too, that doesn’t want confirmation of what he already knows. That he brought this on himself. That he should have deviated sooner and stopped Reed before it even started.

Reed hasn’t attempted to talk to him again, and no one has tried to touch him inappropriately since the Basario crime scene. He can endure the comments made just in his earshot about his supposed promiscuity for a few more weeks. By then, either the interest will have faded or it won’t matter, because Connor will likely be transferred to another district. He’s already compiling arguments for why it would be beneficial for him to move, and he’s sure that Fowler will be more than happy to let someone else take him on.

He counts his days, he makes his list, and he goes to work, even though his thirium pump is a cold lump of plastic in his chest.

Reed glances at Connor from his desk every day. His name plate still reads Po. Reed. Connor is waiting for the day that will change.

Hank notices, shooting a glare across the bullpen. Reed makes a show of rolling his eyes and reaching into his jacket. His eyebrows raise in surprise, and he pulls his hand back out, staring at his own middle finger in shock before looking at Hank and Connor and gesturing at it helplessly. Then he turns back to his terminal with another eye roll.

“Fuck, I hate that prick,” Hank grumbles, rolling his chair to face Connor instead. “He hasn’t been bothering you, has he?” Grateful that at least in this he’s being truthful, Connor shakes his head, finally dropping his gaze from Reed. “Good.” Then, “I don’t like this. Jeffrey’s practically handing him his old job back, and he’s letting it go to his head. Thinks he’s so goddamn important. I’d like to knock him down a few pegs again and remind him just what a piece of shit he really is.”

Connor thinks of having Reed on his knees, his own gun pointed at him. The cold metal beneath Connor’s fingers, and Reed’s assurance that Connor couldn’t kill him. “I’m not sure that’s possible, Lieutenant. I don’t know that anything could make Officer Reed believe he is anything less than indestructible.”

Snorting a laugh, Hank says, “Yeah, well, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have fun trying. Or that he wouldn’t deserve it.”

He thinks about pulling the trigger. The red hole that would have bloomed in Reed’s forehead and made his body jerk. His hands clench around the edges of the desk.

“Have you registered Ms. Darling’s daughter’s statement in the archive yet? The case is closed, we need to get everything filed away,” Connor says.

“Ah, shit, no, I keep forgetting to go down there. Hate it in there, it’s so damn cold,” Hank mutters, digging through his pockets for his phone.

“No, it’s fine,” Connor says, standing. His eyes flick to Reed, who glances up at the movement. Connor looks down at Hank quickly, but he’s aware of Reed’s continued stare in his peripheral. “I’ll register it now. It will be faster if I do it.”

Waving a hand, Hank says, “Hey, knock yourself out. After you get back, we can go out for lunch.”

For the first time all day, Connor smiles. Lunches with Hank are quickly becoming the highlight of his day—being able to go somewhere and talk about cases without worry of other officers making untoward comments, especially where Hank might hear. “I’m looking forward to it. Perhaps we could try somewhere a little more healthy?”

“No way. First you steal my couch, then you steal my trash, next you wanna steal my food?” Hank scowls, though his eyes are light.

Rounding their desks, Connor pauses long enough to pat Hank’s hand where it rests by his keyboard. Hank’s knuckles are warm, and their eyes both flicker down to the brief connection. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’ll be sure to steal something worthwhile next time.” Hank shakes his head silently and Connor doesn’t let himself linger, pulling his hand away and moving on.

The hallway to the archive is empty, and he lets himself down into the basement with his key. He doesn’t like to come here alone if he can help it, but he’s glad of the excuse to be out from under Reed’s scrutiny. The white glow of the LED panels in the walls is something he’s had to get used to, and yet it still rattles some part of him that was knocked loose and never put back right. As he approaches the terminal, he gives in to the urge that always hits him when he’s down here and activates his infrared.

There is no soft glow of evaporated thirium. He can map the exact points where his blood spattered and dripped, but the evidence is long gone.

He stands to the right of the spot anyways, trying not to think of his back pressed to the bright screen as he logs in. There’s a sound behind him, of the door at the top of the stairs opening, and Connor’s plates shudder and adjust themselves across his body involuntarily.

He turns, dread curling vines around throat.

Blinks at the friendly face of the lab tech who appears coming down the stairs carrying a labeled cardboard box. He analyzes the man, identifies him as Finnegan Foxglove. He’s mid-thirties, with short, dark brown hair and a dark scrub of stubble across his cheeks. The man slows mid-step as he notices Connor at the terminal, then continues on, giving Connor a brief nod as he comes to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for his turn.

Before his session can time out, Connor returns to his task, pressing his hand to the screen. Of course it wouldn’t be Reed. Embarrassment floods him at his own paranoia. The man hasn’t spoken to him since Connor rebuffed his advances, and certainly wouldn’t try anything in the archive during a busy work day. He shifts casually, blocking the lab tech’s sight, then allows his skin to peel back, revealing his bare plastic as he interfaces with the terminal.

He fills out the registration form quickly and begins the upload of the transcription and recorded audio, plus his own record of what Ms. Darling’s daughter had to say before he’d left the house. It’s as he’s waiting, hand pressed to the cold screen, that he hears the lab tech shift and something being set down.

“Your name’s Connor, isn’t it?” a smooth voice asks in lemon yellow and stiff leather. Connor listens closely to the steps clicking across the tile, watching the info boxes warily.

“Yes.” He turns his head when the lab tech steps up to his side, no longer holding the box. “Can I help you?” he asks politely, wishing he could hide his bare hand, but the man’s gaze flicks to it in interest as he stands there.

“I think you can,” he drawls, settling a hip against the terminal’s edge, forcing Connor to take a step to the side to maintain some sense of personal space. “I’m Finnegan, but you,” he says, letting his eyes rake down Connor's body. “Can call me Finn. What are you doing after work?” The upload of the files is complete and Connor withdraws his hand quickly, skin sliding back over it. Foxglove’s eyes follow it before meeting Connor’s gaze, a small twisting his lips up.

“I’m afraid I’m busy today,” Connor says, already taking a step towards the stairs, but Foxglove pushes off the terminal quickly, blocking his path. Over the man’s shoulder Connor can see the camera in the corner. Red light blinking.

“When are you free?” Foxglove asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets casually. “Or I can just give you my number, we can set something up.” Foxglove looks him over again, long and slow, his smile only growing. “You look so pretty, you know that?”

His temperature regulator drops. “I was built this way,” he says, stiff as wood. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m already in a happy relationship. I have to get back to work now.” He thinks, guiltily, of Hank being the one he’s in this fake relationship with. It’s just for the sake of the gentler put down than he gave Reed, hoping it will placate Foxglove and prevent further questioning. He takes a step to the left, but Foxglove mirrors him, pulling his hands out of his pockets to hold them out placatingly.

“Oh, hey, that’s alright.” There’s a wheedling note in Foxglove’s voice now. “They don’t have to know. We can keep it between you and me,” he says, gesturing between them.

His already low opinion of the man drops even further. “Cheating on my partner would be unethical and I’m not interested.” He takes a further step that Foxglove again mirrors, moving into Connor’s space, forcing him to back up.

“Whoever they are is really lucky,” Foxglove muses, and he just keeps coming, pressing Connor back with every inch he steals. “A pretty thing like you? Guys are probably lining up at your door. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have to beat them off with a broom.” He pauses, as if waiting for Connor to reply, but Connor’s lips are a thin, silent line. “I heard you’re an insatiable little thing. Heard you did it right here in the archive.” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Right on the terminal.” The edge of it digs into Connor’s lower back, and he knows without looking down that he’s standing in the spot where his thirium pooled. “Let me take care of you. I’ll satisfy you so good you won’t want anyone else. Show you what I can do.”

There’s a hand on Connor’s waist, a body slotting against his, and Foxglove’s face looms closer to his own, hot breath washing over him.

“No, thank you,” Connor says distantly. His fingers curl around the lower edge of the terminal, the pulse of his thirium pounding through his skull. “I’d rather be left alone.”

“Hmm, you’re saying no, but your body is telling me yes,” Foxglove mutters, and Connor jumps as a hand cups him through his pants. He’s still soft.

He should shove the man off. He should push him away with all the strength his servos can muster. He should call Hank.

He’s frozen.

A red wall has risen around him and his breath quickens.

“This is highly unprofessional,” Connor says, with lips he can’t feel. The buzzing feeling has settled beneath the plates of his face. He hears the echoes of his words from months ago.

_ “Do I look like I give a shit?”  _ Reed growls.

“No one’s looking,” Foxglove murmurs, the heel of his hand pressing in, trying to bring Connor to arousal.

He can hear the sound of a belt unbuckling and there are 400 tiles on the archive ceiling. The camera light blinks red red red. Hands on his thighs, spreading his legs. The terminal lights up beneath him and the pressure in Connor’s chest winds tighter and tighter. The countdown floating in his vision is glitching but the walls are solid crimson.

_ // DON’T DISRUPT THE INVESTIGATION // _

Reed grunts and Connor feels warm thirium sliding down his skin, hitting the touch screen. The uncomfortable stretch that his body accommodates with ease. This isn’t real. He’s just a machine.

_ // DON’T DISRUPT THE INVESTIGATION // _

Errors pile up in his vision. He can’t access his communication network, can’t move, can’t think with Reed panting and groaning above him and his systems shutting down.

_ “You look so good fucked up. So fucking hot.” _

“You’re so pretty. Come on, don’t be like that.”

_ “Least they already know what a dirty slut you are.” _

“Hey, are you listening?”

_ “Dirty fucking deviant.” _

“What the fuck.”

He shivers as the sensation of hands on his body slowly fades, opening his eyes, unsure of when he ever closed them. His thermal regulator is alarmingly low.

He’s alone.

Foxglove is gone, as is his box. Connor’s hands are still wrapped around the terminal’s bottom, and his servos stick as he slowly unclenches his fingers. He checks his internal clock and finds that only a minute has passed. The thrum of his thirium is loud in his audio processors, and he remains leaning against the terminal, working to slow his breaths. Holding them longer and longer until his thirium pump steadies in his chest.

He’s fine. He’s not with Reed or the lab tech. Foxglove didn’t do anything more than grope him, it was hardly any worse than what happened with Headley. He has to go back to Hank. He has to seem like nothing happened.

He can’t move.

He doesn’t want to go back to the bullpen, where everyone except a scant few give him strange looks when they notice him. Where Reed will smirk lazily at Connor from his desk. Where Hank may realize that something is wrong and question him about it. He doesn’t want to lie. He doesn’t want Hank to know.

He wishes Hank were here right now, regardless. He wants Hank to speak about meaningless things in his soothing rumble, to press a warm hand to Connor’s shoulder and let Connor lean against him.

Why can’t he get over this? Why is this still affecting him so much?

He slams his fist into the terminal, the sharp smack resounding through the room. It doesn’t hurt. He can’t be hurt. He’s an android, nothing can cause him any sort of physical pain, and yet he acts like what happened warrants the types of responses people have to trauma. He wants to do it again and again, slam his hand against the edge until it dents his chassis and gives him something real to worry about. Not the baseless fear and anxiety that leaves him trembling and immobile from a few simple touches.

He pushes away from it suddenly, stumbling towards the steps until his servos compensate and hold him. Then he walks calmly up the stairs, exiting the archive and the back hallways into the bustle of the bullpen. Hank is already itching to go, keys in hand, knee pumping restlessly where he sits on the edge of his seat.

He looks up when Connor approaches, smiling as he stands, and Connor returns the smile double-fold, making sure that every pseudo-muscle on his face projects ease and happiness. Pushing the malfunction and his own unnecessary panic as deep into his system files as he can.

-

There’s something up with Connor, of that Hank is sure, and the worry gnaws at his gut, makes his tongue dry and itchy for something to sooth it. Connor had taken longer than usual down in the archive, and the moment he came out with that 100 watt smile, Hank has been on edge. While it’s lessened as the day went on, the fact that Connor continues to project this front of happiness makes him wary.

Not even on the best days does Connor smile so wide for so long. His smiles are soft, crooked things, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to. It sends flutters through Hank’s stomach when he can prod one out of Connor. Or when Connor greets him with a little smile in the morning.

It’s unnerving, like seeing what Connor would be like if he’d been made for the customer service sector instead of public safety.

He kept his eye on Reed while Connor was gone, but the prick never moved from his desk. He’s caught Reed staring at Connor more than once with a nasty little look, but it’s not enough for him to call Reed out on harassment without drawing attention to themselves. He knows he’ll just upset Connor and piss Fowler off.

After they went out for lunch, they put the finishing touches on a case, hauling a man down for assaulting an android in broad daylight. That, at least, had been worth grinning over, to see the little guy in cuffs and sobbing that he didn’t mean to do it. They hadn’t even seen Reed afterwards, off on his own duties as an officer.

Whatever happened in the archive, it doesn’t have anything to do with Reed, and Hank is both grateful and wary of what it could be.

When they get home and get relaxed, Connor in that old hoodie of Hank’s that he seems to favor and stirring meat and veggies around in some kind of stir fry he’d insisted Hank try for it’s health benefits, or whatever, Hank finally figures it’s as good a time as any to ask.

“You feeling alright, Connor?” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the sizzling pan.

“Of course, Hank.” Connor tips his head around briefly, the same wide smile making another appearance. “My systems are all functioning within acceptable parameters and we closed a case today. Why wouldn’t I be?” His elbow shifts forward and back as he tosses the ingredients like a pro chef in a five star restaurant and not like a detective in the home he shares with an old drunk and his dog.

“Dunno.” Hank’s got a glass of Jack Daniels tonight, barely two fingers. For whatever reason, Connor never gets on his case when he brings this stuff out. Maybe cause he knows it’s just social drinking. Maybe he knows the Black Lamb is reserved for special cases. Hank takes a sip, savoring the harsh flavor on his tongue. “You’ve just been a little strange since right before lunch.”

With a click, the burner goes off and Connor moves to the sink with the pan, dumping the contents into a colander he’d set up. He says nothing as he does it, his LED out of Hank’s view, but his shoulders tighten almost unnoticeably beneath the oversized hoodie.

“I don’t think I’ve been strange,” Connor says, moving to pull a plate down from a cabinet. Hank rises to join him, taking the ceramic deftly and finally getting a look at his LED. Soft blue.

“Maybe you don’t, but I’ve never seen you smile so much. Something good happen?” He waits to the side for Connor to return the food to the pan and step back, but he makes no move towards it himself. All his attention is now on Connor’s face, where the smile is wavering.

“Not as such,” Connor says slowly. “I was simply thinking of how much I was looking forward to going to lunch with you.” His eyes flick to Hank, and he gestures at the food. “Tell me what you think.”

It’s a clear attempt to change the subject, so Hank lets it go, scooping beef and vegetables onto his plate as Connor looks on.

The evening is peaceful, but Hank keeps an eye on Connor anyways. He’s an adult, or a mature android, or whatever, but Hank can’t help the curl of protectiveness that winds through him. He hates when Connor tries to pretend nothing’s bothering him. It makes him think of last November and the massive secret that Connor couldn’t tell anyone, and he worries how that may have affected him. Whether Connor still believes he has to shoulder things alone.

Connor goes out to his rose bush one more time as the evening wears on, flipping the back light on as he goes. Hank’s curious if Connor still associates the plant with the AI in his head that tried to take him over, or if it’s helping, tending to one on his own, but he doesn’t plan on asking unless Connor offers. It’s not his business, even if he’s turned into a worry-wart.

From his shelf, Hank picks a book to read for a little while, eyes aching from staring at screens all day. The TV stays off, even when Connor comes back inside, wiping his shoes conscientiously on the mat. He occupies himself by sitting next to Sumo’s dog bed and petting him absently, probably as he scrolls the internet in his brain. It’s distractingly domestic, and Hank finds himself looking up from the book often. Tracing the soft fall of Connor’s hair over his forehead and thinking of how it felt to have Connor against his side those months ago.

He’d been drunk and tired and stupidly affectionate those couple of times, and part of him longs for the excuse again. Something about having Connor pressed to his side is so calming. Like the world is right with him there.

It’s a stupid thought and he snorts to himself, looking down at his book again. The fantasies of domesticity are just that—fantasies. After what Connor’s been through it’s not likely he’s on the lookout for a relationship at the moment, and especially not with an old bastard like Hank. He tries not to linger on it, because it only worsens the heavy-sick feeling in his gut of longing for something that’s not going to happen. He knows Connor likes his company, or else he wouldn’t tolerate Hank’s bullshit, but it’s too much to even dream of more.

These moments where they sit calm and quiet, in each other’s spheres without the need for chitchat, is enough. He’d rather kill himself than destroy this friendship

It doesn’t take long, sitting in peace and barely focused on his book, for the weight of the day to drag at his eyelids. He knows he’s done when the book starts to slip form his hands and he startles, catching it. Connor looks over at him at the movement, alert and not showing even a hint of exhaustion, and Hank for once wishes he had the same ability to look so lively after a long day at work.

“Bed time for me,” he says, heaving himself out of the comfortable dent he’d put into the cushion. He stretches with a deep yawn, and when he comes down from his toes he rubs his belly. “See you in the morning, Connor.”

“Good night, Hank,” Connor calls, unmoving from his spot by Sumo, who’s tail began to thwump when Hank first stood.

His room is dark and he doesn’t even bother flicking the light on when he steps in, just shuts the door behind him and shuffles to his bed. The sheets are still tossed back from the morning and cool to the touch. He’s quick to slide under the covers, pulling them over his shoulders and shivering once.

It’s a big bed, and he starts out on one side without thinking, as if there’s someone else who will walk through his bedroom door and join him, before he scoots into the middle of it. It’s nice to sprawl out, but there’s something lonely about all that empty space, and he rolls onto his side and pulls one of the pillows down to wrap his arms around. It’s a poor substitute, the soft linen still cold, too much give, but he hugs it to his chest and settles his chin against it.

He’s tired, but despite that, his eyes remain open, staring at the faint light seeping in through the blinds in orange slats across the bed. The house is silent and he wonders what Connor is doing. If he’s still petting Sumo, browsing the internet, or whatever, or if he’s settling into the couch for sleep mode. He can’t remember if that’s the right word for it.

His hand brushes across the empty space that still stretches between him and the edge of the bed. Big enough for a person to fill. Or an android. Connor denies needing a bed when Hank suggests it, but he still deserves more than three cramped couch cushions. Everyone deserves a nice place to sleep. There’s not really space for a whole nother bed, but there’s space here.

Clenching his fist, he withdraws his arm, tucking the pillow tight against him. Closes his eyes and hopes sleep comes quick.

A sound snaps his eyes open, and he lifts his head blearily in the darkness. There’s still a hollow sleeplessness beneath his eyes, but when he glances at the clock on his nightstand he sees that a few hours have passed. The glowing red numbers read half past two in the morning and he doesn’t feel like he’s slept a wink.

He sits up, suddenly alert as more sounds reach him, something heavy thumping against the floor, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Connor?” he calls, and when he hears no response he opens the drawer of his nightstand and grabs the gun he keeps there. In the next drawer are bullets, and even in the dark he loads them quickly, years of experience on his side. His heart thunders against his rib cage and his mind conjures up intruders, arsonists, and robbers.

As quietly as he can, he cracks the bedroom door open and peers into the hallway. Immediately, he spots Sumo laying in front of the bathroom door across the hall. It’s closed, a thin crack of light spilling out beneath, and Sumo whines as he noses at it. It’s silent in the house otherwise.

“Connor?” he calls again, but he’s already lowering the gun, clicking the safety on, feeling a little silly. He returns to the dark of his room, emptying the chambers of his revolver and sliding them back into their respective drawers before going out into the hall again.

Sumo hops up at Hank’s approach, stepping back with his tail swishing curiously. Hank grabs the door handle and turns it without really thinking, saying, “Connor, you okay in here?” The first thing he notices is the mess—the cup with his toothbrush is on the floor in front of the sink, as well as a hand towel he’d left draped over the edge, a bar of soap, a barely used razor, and a shirt that’s half folded. “Connor?” The door swings wider, and Hank startles at the sight of Connor on the ground, back pressed to the wall, breathing hard through his nose.

It’s a scary sight, and for a moment Hank is frozen, heart in his throat. He’s seen Connor have a panic attack, or the android equivalent, once or twice, and this is both the same and much worse. Connor’s eyes are wide, trained on the opposite wall, and the fingers of one hand press flat against his bare chest. He can see the skin has melted away from where Connor touches, revealing white plastic and a curving black seam that disappears beneath Connor’s palm.

“Connor?” he says, hesitant, and Connor twitches, head jerking minutely towards Hank’s voice before snapping forward again, as if being called to attention.

Slowly, Hank moves to Connor’s side and crouches, one hand on the wall for balance. Connor’s LED casts a burning red glow against his cheek. “Hey, Connor, can you hear me?” The hand not pressed to Connor’s chest is flat against the floor, and tentatively, Hank places one of his over it. The skin is cold to the touch, a contrast from its usual warmth, and fear flashes through him. Is Connor’s body not regulating itself?

“Listen to me, okay?” He works to soften his voice, but panic bangs at the door, demanding to be let in, and he’s not a soft person by nature. “Talk to me, tell me what’s going on. I know you can hear me, tell me what’s happening.”

The fingers beneath his spasm, and this close Hank can see the small tremble in Connor’s arms and his legs where they’re bent in front of him.

Connor’s eyes remain unseeing, gazing past the sink, staring into another universe. Hank wants to pull him out of wherever he is. He can only imagine what’s going through Connor’s computer brain, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to imagine hard. What happened last year left its mark on Connor. Even if he seems content to ignore it, it won’t ignore him, and Hank’s fingers curl around Connor’s, wishing he could take it away.

The familiar guilt burns at the back of his throat. If he’d paid attention, maybe this wouldn’t be happening. If Hank had asked more, had made Connor tell him what was going on, he could have done something. Instead, all he can do is watch Connor have a fucking panic attack on their bathroom floor while Hank talks to himself like an idiot.

“Connor, I need you to listen carefully.” He lifts Connor’s hand, doesn’t even think, presses the cold fingers to the thin cotton of his shirt. “Can you feel that?” He inhales deeply, holds for a moment, then exhales. “That’s what I need you to do. Deep breaths. With me, okay?” He does it again, pulling deep, chest expanding beneath the hand he holds, then lets it out in a soft whoosh.

There’s no response from Connor other than the steady flare of his nostrils and his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his hand.

“In,” Hank repeats, feeling foolish. “Out.” Maybe this is pointless. He barely knows how to help a human through a panic attack, let alone an android. Calming his breathing may do nothing for whatever is happening in his processors.

He keeps going anyways. Sitting there doing nothing feels even more wrong, and he hates feeling useless when his friend his hurting. He repeats the words with each inhale and exhale, holds Connor’s hand tight to his chest, until finally he thinks he sees a difference. Connor’s rough breath in lasts a little longer.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Try to hold it longer. Just another second longer.” He breathes in, and Connor breathes in. It comes back out faster than Hank’s, but not by much. “Hell yeah. Keep going. In and out. Nice and slow.”

Connor’s head turns on rusty hinges, and relief washes through Hank as Connor’s eyes meet his. His mouth opens on his next exhale, and his voice comes out small and strained. “Hank.”

He squeezes Connor’s fingers, but can’t bring himself to let go. Keeps it cradled against his chest for just a little longer. Connor’s breathing hasn’t quite steadied out, he tells himself.

“Yeah, that’s right. Keep breathing, Connor.” He casts around for something to say, settles on, “Sumo was worried about you. Crying and trying to claw his way under the door to get to you.”

There’s a few seconds where the only sounds are their breaths, beating an arrhythmic tempo against his bathroom walls, and then Connor gasps, “Is he okay?”

Connor worrying about the fucking dog when he’s the one having a breakdown in the bathroom shouldn’t be funny, but Hank barks a short laugh anyways. “Of course he’s okay. Jesus, kid, you’re the one we’re worried about.”

“Please don’t be,” Connor says, and his next breath in is deeper. He holds it as long as Hank does before letting it out. “I’m okay. Just a—glitch.”

He doesn’t miss Connor’s hesitation, and he hesitates himself. Connor has some kind of hangup about seeing himself as vulnerable, as far as Hank can tell. They haven’t talked about it since last year, not overtly, but he remembers with a dull ache in his ribs how Connor had denied his hurt even as he shook and cried against Hank’s shoulder. Maybe Connor doesn’t want to apply more human terms to his trauma. Or maybe, Hank thinks with a sinking sensation, Connor doesn’t think he deserves to.

“You sure that’s a glitch? Looks a helluva lot more like a panic attack. Did something happen? What were you doing in here?” Hank finally asks as glibly as he can considering the circumstances. Maybe if he calls it that first, Connor will see it’s okay for him to call it that too.

Connor’s next breath hitches, but he keeps breathing deep, following Hank’s example. “No. Just an error in my processor. I was cleaning my chassis of debris when it affected me.” His cheek and temple are still awash in the dull red glow—it hasn’t changed once. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

“Hey, no, I don’t give a fuck about that. I’d rather know you’re okay than have you in here alone—glitching out.” Fuck it, he’ll use Connor’s terms if that’s what it takes to get the android talking. He didn’t think androids needed to clean their plastic bodies much, he would think Connor would mention something like this before, but what does he know. “Did something happen? Other than in here, I mean? Reed hasn’t been fucking with you again, has he?”

“No—”

“Cause if he has, just say the word, Connor.”

“No, he hasn’t done anything since—the photo.” The words contain a weight that drags Connor’s eyes away from Hank’s. He seems to notice for the first time the patch of plastic surrounding the hand on his chest, and it seals over before he lifts it, leaving no trace of the sturdy body beneath his skin.

Hank wants to smack himself. The photo probably dragged up all kinds of unwanted memories. He’s reading too much into things, looking for an excuse to finally give Reed what he deserves. He shouldn’t be worrying about Reed right now, he should be worried about Connor and what he’s going through.

He wishes Connor would talk with Jeffrey, but he gets wanting to leave it behind him. To forget it even happened. Connor doesn’t have the luxury of being able to get drunk like Hank to distract himself. That million dollar processor can play Connor’s memories in high definition with no loss of detail. Hank should know—he’s seen the videos, after all.

“Okay,” Hank says awkwardly. “Alright. That’s good.” He wants to say more. Offer an ear, if Connor wants to talk. Tell him something smart and helpful, but his mind is drawing a fucking blank, and even if it wasn’t, he knows he couldn’t actually say anything. It all feels horribly inadequate in the face of what happened. Like the same platitudes he was given when Cole died.  _ These feelings won’t last  _ and  _ Someday you’ll move on. _

Connor is stronger than anyone Hank knows, but he’s not invincible, as much as he acts like it. It’s okay to be weak, to be hurt, but Connor keeps trying to struggle under this burden alone. Hank wishes there was something he could say that didn’t involve telling Connor that what he’s feeling right now won’t last. It’s almost impossible to imagine feeling any different when you’re currently getting sucked down into the muck. Even down the line, there are probably always going to be moments where it will sneak up on him, like mud on the bottom of a shoe—unseen but not gone.

Sometimes pain doesn’t go away, and Hank can’t lie to Connor like that.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Hank,” Connor says, shifting to get his feet under him. His LED drops to gold, and then stays there.

Only then does Hank realize he still has Connor’s hand pressed to his chest, and he releases it guiltily, thankful Connor didn’t feel the need to comment on it. Already his fingers itch to catch it again, or to wrap his arm around Connor’s back and help him to his feet. He does neither, rising slowly, using the wall for support.

“You didn’t. Uh, disturb me.” He doesn’t feel tired in the least anymore, either. All the excitement has him wide awake. He wants to push more, but Connor obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and Hank’s not going to make him.

Connor gathers his shirt, pulling it over his head, and together they clean up the small mess. Returning the soap, razor, towel, and cup to their places. Hank makes a mental note to buy a new toothbrush tomorrow—despite the mess of his life, he’s not using a toothbrush that touched the bathroom floor. The hoodie Connor has taken over is draped on the towel bar, and Connor grabs it, pulling it on as well. It doesn’t swamp him exactly—they’re nearly the same height—but it’s big on him, the shoulder seams hanging limp, the material loose over his thinner frame.

Hank forces himself to look away from where the sleeves bunch around Connor’s wrists, threatening to slip over his hands.

Sumo waits just outside the bathroom, looking up at them with deep, worried eyes. Immediately Connor crouches down, petting Sumo’s softly, saying something too quiet for Hank to make out. His LED still a yellow warning. With his head bowed, Hank can see the soft, short hair at the nape of Connor’s neck, and even though he knows how they feel, he wants to run his fingers through them.

He turns towards his room, annoyance flashing through him at his own thoughts. Can’t he stop thinking like this for five fucking minutes? He needs to get a grip.

Before he can get a step away, fingers catch his wrist, and he jerks to a stop, looking down at Connor, who’s staring up at him with a wild-eyed look on his face, his other hand frozen in Sumo’s fur. “I don’t—” he starts, and then shakes his head, releasing Hank’s wrist and standing. “Sorry. Good night, Hank,” he says, lips twitching for a smile and falling just short. He turns to go back down the hallway, to the living room, and the couch, and it’s three small cushions.

“Wait,” Hank says, and Connor pauses, looking back at him. “Why don’t, uh. Would you like to— Ah, fuck!” His heart is in his throat as he fumbles for some way to offer this that won’t make him sound like he’s coming onto Connor. This isn’t about his dumb feelings in the slightest. The desperation in Connor’s brown eyes is painful, and one Hank is all too familiar with. “You can stay with me tonight. If you want. I have plenty of space,” he finally spits out, and braces himself for whatever reaction Connor may have.

“Oh,” Connor breathes, a quiet sound. Then, hesitant, as if he’s second guessing himself, “If you wouldn’t mind, I would certainly appreciate it.” The desperation in those wide eyes melts to something like relief when Hank nods.

“Yeah, it’s no problem. Just, you know, I might roll over on you in my sleep so. There’s that.” His own gut unclenches in relief, and he nods to his bedroom. “Come on.”

The lights in his room are still off, and he doesn’t bother with them as he goes to the bed, making a half-assed attempt to straighten the covers before sliding beneath them. On the other side, Connor sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, pausing there, before pulling his legs up and sitting stiffly.

“You can lay down, you know,” Hank says, as he pulls his pillow under his head and rolls onto his front.

Connor looks down at him, but his face is shadowed and invisible against the faint light coming through the blinds behind him, his LED a yellow glow. Slowly, he pulls the covers over his legs and lays down, his arms at his sides, staring up at the ceiling. Taking up that empty space that Hank couldn’t fill. Hank tries to keep a respectful distance between them. Tucks his knee in when it would normally be search for something to press to. It’s weird sharing a bed again, weirder with the feelings bubbling beneath his skin, telling him this is how it should be.

Laying in the darkness, Hank feels his eyes grow heavy. His exhaustion is catching up with him quick, and he knows tomorrow is going to be a very long day. Next to him, Connor shifts, turning to his side. Hank’s hand lays between them on the bed, lit by the yellow of Connor’s temple. He doesn’t move, and Hank wonders sleepily if Connor is scanning him. Observing him.

His eyes slip closed. It’s quiet, nothing but the sound of their soft breaths mingling. It’s a comforting sound. Connor is here. He’s okay. Hank’s not going to let anything happen to him.

He slips down into sleep imagining he feels a hand on his. Warm and smooth. Taking up the empty spaces between his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed, drop me a comment and let me know! I'll see ya'll Saturday~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If ya'll hated everyone before, I think this chapter is really gonna seal the deal lmfao.
> 
> My friend Alex drew this absolutely beautiful (and very nsfw) pic of the pic that was spread around the DPD and I! Am! Screaming!! [Look at this lfkgjdlkjgkdljskl](https://twitter.com/a_v_g_art/status/1134569740968562688) Alex bless u, thank you, ur an angel, an angel of dicks!

Connor dreams of nothing. His processors are blissfully quiet throughout the night. When he comes awake at his usual time, it’s to a weight against him. He doesn’t open his eyes quite yet. Humans are often groggy and confused when they wake up, but Connor is instantly alert and aware, and he can tell by the warmth, the soft skin, the weight across his body, and the sturdy thump beneath a chest that expands in deep breaths, that Hank has drawn him close and is still fast asleep.

It’s strange. Normally his proximity alerts would have warned him of being shifted around, but there was nothing. Even reviewing the event logs shows no alerts.

He should move. He should get up, get his clothes ready. He likes to make breakfast for Hank and have it ready, because Hank would drink only coffee if Connor did nothing, and he’s always appreciative at least of having some food in him during the morning.

Instead he lays still and quiet. Listening to the soft sound of Hank’s body. Feeling the minute shifts. Hank is almost on top of him, leg hooked around one of Connor’s own, arm folding him against a barrel chest. His chin is pressed to Hank’s shoulder and he can smell the same scent that clings to his hoodie. Tangled hair, warm skin, detergent, sweat. He wants to press his face to the neck inches from him and inhale deeply.

He likes this. The weight is steadying, the warmth is familiar, the scent of Hank is comforting. He wants to stay here. For the morning to pass, and the afternoon, and the evening, and still be here, with Hank against him. No one to see him, to make comments about him, his mouth, his ability to perform fellatio, how promiscuous he is. Just him, and Hank, and the quiet.

He doesn’t deserve this, and he feels the hollowness between his metal bones and wires and circuits like a physical thing. The room is still mostly dark when he opens his eyes, only the faintest morning light beginning to creep through the blinds. Hank’s face is slack with sleep, half-buried in the pillow.

He’s only here because of his lie. If Hank knew what he was doing—the way Connor attempted to initiate physical reactions within himself, the fact that it happened more easily when Connor turned his thoughts towards Hank—he would be rightfully disgusted.

Dirty fucking deviant. Dirty slut. Dirty.

He should have deviated sooner. He should have fought Reed instead of following his programming. He shouldn’t be having these thoughts about Hank when he couldn’t even handle a physical relationship with Reed. He should stop thinking about this, stop letting it bother him and affect him so much.

He should get up, so Hank won’t feel awkward when he finally wakes and finds Connor still here. It was a generous offer to allow Connor to share his bed, an offer Connor shouldn’t have allowed himself to indulge in, because it’s only fueling these thoughts. Hank has been doing his best not to initiate much physical contact, and here is Connor taking advantage of his kindness and his inability to pull away. It turns the sweetness of the moment sour. Nothing separates him from Reed if he’s willing to impose himself on Hank against his will.

Let this be an end. He’ll ignore these feelings from now on. It’s for the best.

Carefully, quietly, he extracts himself from Hank’s hold. Hank is a heavy sleeper, and Connor waking him up in the middle of the night with his glitches has made sure he doesn’t wake when Connor settles Hank’s arm back on the bed at his side. From here, leaning over the space he previously occupied, he can see Hank’s features, softened. No stress creasing his brow, no irritable frown tugging at his lips. The hand Connor set down reaches out slowly, blindly, and then goes still against the bare sheet when it finds nothing.

It’s a soft, precious moment, and Connor doesn’t let himself pretend that Hank is reaching for him, and not the loss of warmth and support. Doesn’t think that this is what he’d want a typical morning for them to be like.

He goes quietly from the room and prepares for the day.

His first stop is out back, where the rose bush sits in shadow against the fence, the sun still a faint dream outside this bit of yard. Connor shoves his hand in his pocket, a chill running across his chassis—in his other is the duck shaped watering can, it’s belly sloshing with water. His temperature readout indicates it is a warmer morning than it has been, but he feels the absence of Hank’s warmth more keenly.

There’s been change, so microscopic that Connor hesitates to truly call it change. The beginning of something along one of the canes, not big enough to be called a bud just yet, but growth of some kind. He tests the soil around the base of the bush, pressing a finger into the mulch and assessing it’s dryness. From the duck’s open beak, Connor pours around the base, and then over the top of the plant in a soft, brief shower.

He tests the soil again and scans the rose bush, as if there could have been any new growth in the few minutes he’s been here. Of course it’s exactly the same, except for the beads of water caught on the thorns, trailing slowly down the canes.

He thinks of Amanda and her little spray bottle. How she misted the blooms like an artist puts paint to canvas, with a critical eye and then a definite squeeze of the trigger.

He stands and goes inside to prepare breakfast.

When Hank rises and completes his morning ritual, he pauses at the threshold to the kitchen. Connor, sitting at the table, looks up at him. There’s a plate on the other side, laid out with sausage and eggs, as well as a few apple slices, a mix of Hank’s preference for protein with Connor’s own desire to see the man eat more nutritiously. A simple breakfast he’s made before and confirmed that Hank enjoys more than most.

“Good morning,” Connor says, and goes back to scrolling the news on his HUD, but between the lines he sees Hank come into the kitchen and sit down, eyes on him the whole time.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice sleep-rough and deep, a very pleasant sound that Connor guiltily savors each time he hears it. “You feeling alright today?”

“Just fine. Did you sleep well?”

Hank nods as he pulls the plate closer, picking up the fork resting beside it. “Yeah. Better than I have in a while, to be honest.” Despite his words, he yawns widely, fork poised over the scrambled eggs. “Wish I could sleep like that every night.”

Undoubtedly it was the exhaustion of having his sleep interrupted, and Connor is irritated at himself for his carelessness late last night. Allowing himself to be so affected that it disturbed Hank from his much needed rest.

“I’m going to get dressed,” Connor says, standing abruptly, leaving the table. He can feel Hank’s eyes on him as he turns down the hall.

It’s as he’s pulling on his shirt, pushing each button through its hole, that he receives a notification that stops him short.

_ // From: Gavin Reed //  
_ _ // Meet me behind the station when u get here. Same place as last time. // _

He sits slowly on the edge of the bed. Staring at the message. A static hum gathering beneath his dermal layer, across the planes of his chassis, and his fingers flatten against the fabric of his shirt.

The possibilities of what Reed wants appear before him, based on their last conversation. To ask him out on a date again. To threaten him. To initiate a sexual encounter. To apologize. The paltry 0.2% chance of the last option is laughable, but he’s ice cold inside.

Ignoring a problem does not make the problem go away, but it’s a tempting option. He considers deleting the message and going about his day as if he’d never seen it. Meeting Reed alone is a hazard—the man may still be angry about Connor’s rejection, about his demotion. History shows that Reed has a tendency to lash out when provoked, no matter how innocently Connor means his words.

He remembers wondering, last year, what Reed’s grudge against Connor was. He never treated the other station androids the way he did Connor, but then none of the other androids were given the same freedoms in an investigation as Connor. What changed? Why did Reed ask him out if he hated Connor so much?

“Hey, Connor, you dressed in there?”

Connor startles out of his thoughts, realizing his shirt is still only half buttoned, and calls out, “Just a minute!” He finishes the buttons, pulls his tie around his neck and knots it quickly, clipping it in place. Runs his hand once beneath it once. Twice, because the fabric is rumpled. A third, because he knows he missed a hole, his buttons are misaligned, he looks like a mess—

He jerks the tie off frantically, the clip hitting the carpet, and stares down at his shirt.

They’re all in place, perfectly aligned. Every buttonhole filled by a small, gray button.

The wild feeling galloping down his circuits doesn’t fade, even after he pulls his tie back on and smooths it down. His fingers twitch and curl, the overwhelming drive to do something, but no tasks for them, nearly overwhelming. He fumbles the coin from his pocket, dances it over the back of his knuckles. He balances it on the tip of a finger as it spins, bouncing it in the air a few times, then shoots it from hand to hand.

Thinking back to last night, to the feeling of Hank’s broad chest beneath his palm. The deep in and out of his breaths that Connor could still feel in his fingertips.

His voice, deep and edged with worry.  _ “Deep breaths. With me, okay?” _

It had been hard to copy him. He’d been engulfed in the memory of the archive, and listening to Hank had been like listening to him over a bad connection. Distant, tinny, overlayed by the audio channel of his memory.

Now it’s clearer without the interference of his memory recall, and he takes a deep breath and holds it for four seconds. Focuses on the spin of the coin as he balances it on a fingertip and then bounces it into the air.

The aimless need to do  _ something, _ the feeling of some unfilled task, doesn’t leave him, but after a minute he pockets the coin and squares his shoulders. He’ll meet with Reed and see what the man wants. It’s unlikely he’ll do anything to Connor—he didn’t last time, after all—and Connor has nothing to fear from the man. He’s a machine, he has taken Reed down before. Nothing will happen to him. Nothing.

As Hank and Connor head to work, Connor considers several excuses to stay back while Hank heads inside, but in the end, Hank saves him the trouble when he checks his phone as they're climbing out of the car.

“Aw fuck. Hey, I gotta go straighten up some paperwork I messed up, so I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Hank slams his car door with another curse, hurrying across the parking lot. Connor takes a few steps after him, pretending to follow at a slower pace, but once Hank disappears through the doors into the precinct he stops. The lot is full of cars, and there are a few people pulling in, heading towards the doors.

Connor turns, scanning the parking lot, and spots Reed’s car as the man himself steps out, gesturing Connor over with a nod.

He’s frozen for a moment. Despite the people meandering through the lot Connor feels completely alone. That aimless need for a task makes his fingers tremble, an itch to do something that has nowhere to go. He moves slowly in Reed’s direction as if through a storm.

“Yo, Connor. What’s up?” The same informational box pops up on the side of his HUD. The manufacturer of the precinct’s nitrile gloves. AF0F19. The number that appears beside Reed’s grinning face is at 23%. He’s at ease. Confident, even. Connor’s own stress level is much higher.

“Can I help you, Officer Reed?” Connor wants to dispense with the pleasantries.

“Don’t be like that. Come on, would a smile hurt?” Reed leans his hip against his car, crossing his arms.

The buzz in Connor’s fingers intensifies, and he locks his hands together at the small of his back to hide the tremors. “If there’s nothing you needed then I’m afraid I have to cut this short. We have work to do.” He wants to say something stronger, but he doesn’t want to provoke Reed’s anger and possibly prolong this encounter.

Reed’s grin slips for a moment, along with the tick of his stress level riding higher. “I just wanted to talk. Damn, you’re always so pissy.”

He feels his eyebrows twitch, and schools his expression before it can give away the frustration that surges through him. “I’m here, as you requested. What did you want to talk about?”

Reed says nothing for a long moment, clearly annoyed. If Connor were human, he might make a show of checking a wristwatch. As it is, he only stares at Reed blankly. Of the two of them, he’s capable of much more patience than Reed, and his lips twitch when Reed finally pushes off the car, grin entirely gone. Connor’s own slight amusement vanishes in an instant when Reed approaches to within arms length, but he holds his ground. Giving away his own growing apprehension wouldn’t do him any favors.

“Wanted to know if you’d rethought my offer,” he says, glaring up at Connor. “Since you can’t seem to keep your eyes off of me.”

He resists the urge to say that it’s because he feels the need to be constantly aware of Reed’s location when they’re within a certain proximity to each other. It’s doubtful Reed would take it the way Connor means. “No thank you, I’m still not interested in a relationship. If you’ll excuse me.”

He turns towards the doors, but a hand closes over his arm. His servos freeze, only for a moment, before he’s ripping himself away from the grip. Reed stares at him in surprise, hand hanging in the air. “Calm the fuck down, we’re just talking, tincan,” Reed snaps, letting his hand drop.

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t touch me again, Officer Reed.” His voice is carefully neutral, and he presses his palms flat to his thighs.

Reed snorts. “Fuck off. Not like you don’t get off on it, right?”

“As I’ve already informed you, they were preprogrammed reactions.”

“So what? Doesn’t have to be that way now.” Reed takes a step forward, and Connor takes one back, maintaining the small distance. “Come on, barbie. Let me show you a good time. We can do better than a quickie.”

“I’m not interested. I’m not sure what about that you’re having a hard time understanding, Officer,” Connor says, sharper than he intends, and he’s surprised at himself. There’s still that unwarranted fear, but it’s buried under a layer of frustration, and the buzzing spreads up from his arms and across his chest.

“You know, last time we talked, you weren’t very nice, and look what happened,” Gavin says, eyes narrowing in a sharp glare. “So maybe you wanna watch your mouth.”

“Is that a threat, Officer?” Connor is hyperware of the few other people in the lot. Not quite close enough to hear their words, but that may not last.

“Just a friendly warning. Returning the favor, you could say. You let Anderson have that fucking video and got me demoted, I’d say fair is fair.”

He’s stunned for a moment, but not long. “You chose to behave inappropriately during a sting operation. My intention with sharing my memory was to apprehend the suspect. I am not responsible for your demotion.” It had been for the sake of the mission, completely unrelated to his feelings on Reed or anything else. What Hank saw had been an accident, something he’d never wanted him or anyone else to see.

“Yet here we are,” Reed snaps. “And it would sure suck if  _ you _ lost  _ your _ job if a few more pictures got around, wouldn’t it?”

The threat douses the static sensation, and just like that Connor’s servos feel weak and loose. He’s tired of the threats, the comments, the people who want to touch him. He was lucky the captain didn’t see the first picture that was circulated, but he may not be so fortunate again. He can’t afford it. Not with his assessment so close. Only a few weeks more, then he can request a transfer and leave this behind for good. Maybe he’ll stop malfunctioning so much.

For a second, he weighs the costs. Giving in and doing what Reed wants, versus refusing him again and having more pictures spread. Undoubtedly Reed wants another sexual encounter, and because he can’t simply command Connor into entertaining him anymore, he’s resorting to blackmail. It would be simple to let it happen. He’s done it before, after all. Let himself submit, and then it’ll be done.

Revulsion shivers through Connor’s core, and he reaches out, steadying himself on the car next to him. He can’t. No matter how much simpler it would be to let it happen, just the thought of being under Reed’s control, even of his own will, makes his processors behave as if they’re going into a system crash.

He recalls, distantly, his hope that this body would be destroyed when Fisk had him. That every part of him that had been touched and kissed and fucked would be recycled for something better.

He wishes, for the first time in a long time, that it had happened. That Fisk had gotten what he wanted, and pulled Connor’s pump regulator out before Connor could get his. Or that he’d just let Fisk tear him apart until there was nothing left but scraps.

Guilt washes through him at the thought. He fought to be here, to see Hank again, to remain the same Connor so he could keep seeing Hank every day. He didn’t fight so hard just to be put back where he was. Wanting for an excuse for destruction.

This will never end if he gives in. It will just keep going, even if he switches precincts. It’s not like Reed doesn’t know where he lives, doesn’t know how to contact him, won’t still have those pictures to hold over Connor’s head. There’s only one course of action that can salvage this situation.

“I don’t care,” Connor says flatly.

“What?”

“I don’t care, Officer.”

“Are you serious?”

Connor considers Reed’s flabbergasted look. “Completely. I don’t care what pictures you have or what you do with them.”

After a moment Reed’s mouth snaps closed and his glare hardens. “Oh yeah? What if I send them to Anderson, then? Think he might care? Maybe his good will for the sad little robot will finally run out once he sees what a slut you are.”

Connor doesn’t spare a glance around to see who could be listening. Can’t, or Reed may see through his indifference. “He already knows everything that happened. He looked through my memories, if you recall, Officer. He saw it all.”

“Wow,” Gavin mutters lowly, and his stress level hits 100%. The hex code glares red in Connor’s vision. “You’re a real piece of work. I was joking before, but I guess Anderson likes ‘em slutty. Probably the only way he gets any, huh?” He presses into Connor’s space suddenly, breath fanning hot across his face, and Connor forces himself not to move despite the hammering of his thirium pump, as if it will explode in his chest. “Don’t know why I bothered. Probably should have just shoved you down and forced my cock down your throat. It worked before, right?”

Before Connor can say a word he’s being shoved backwards. He catches himself against a car, thiriump thrumming through his components. A preconstruction opens before him, preparing to fight Reed off without hurting him.

Reed stomps away without a look back, and Connor is left leaning against the car, breathing hard and shallow, but alone. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to do, his systems in disarray from the conflicting input of preparing to fight and trying to calm down. He can see Reed winding through the cars until he disappears into the precinct.

He straightens up, scanning his surroundings, but no one’s looking his way, too caught up in their own morning routines to notice such a small altercation. He adjusts his coat and tie, checks his buttons. Breathes deep and holds it for four seconds before letting it out in a slow exhale. He’s fine. Reed will hopefully back off now that he thinks Connor isn’t concerned about the pictures. It’s over with.

His steps are sure as he enters the building and heads to his desk. Hank is already there, and he looks up as Connor seats himself behind his terminal.

“Well, about time! You get lost or something?”

Connor scans the other desks briefly, sees Chris just walking in, and says, “No, I was simply talking with Officer Miller for a moment.”

“Ahh, got stuck talking about Damien, huh?” Hank ducks his head, a wistful note to his words. “Sounds like a great kid.”

“Yes, he does,” Connor agrees, turning to his computer guiltily. He hadn’t wanted to remind Hank of painful memories, but it seems like every lie he tells only ends up hurting someone.

This will be the last one, he tells himself. There’s no need to lie to Hank anymore, no need to cause him anymore unintentional pain or worry.

There are new case files to be looked over awaiting them in their email, and Connor connects with the terminal, eager to begin the work and put the morning behind him. Hank takes his time logging in and sipping at his coffee while Connor analyzes the files all at once before opening them for an in depth read through. Just as he feels the tension from earlier melting from his servos, a message pops up on his terminal.

It’s a brief loading notification for a file drop, the circle of his unused mouse spinning lazily. It disappears, a new window opening, and the image that spreads itself across his screen makes Connor recoil, dropping his connection with the terminal.

It’s him, spread out against a glowing background, his arms above his head, shirt opened and stomach covered in a mess of blue and white. His spent cock rests against his stomach, legs spread and hole shiny and leaking Reed’s spend. His eyes are open but unfocused, staring up, lips pressed in a flat line.

He hears gasps, the rumble of chairs rolling back, and Connor tears his eyes away from the image, staring around at the precinct. At the shock spreading from face to face. There’s a sharp,  _ “Fuck,” _ and from the corner of his eye Connor sees Hank’s cup hit the desk, splashing coffee across the surface. Voices are around him, other cries of shock and disgust.

He leans forward again, reconnecting with the terminal, slips into the network, and cuts the connection to the file drop system from every computer in the precinct, but it’s far too late. He looks over, desperate, and finds Hank motionless, coffee pouring over the edge of the desk in a dark waterfall. His eyes are stuck to the screen, though the image is gone.

“What the hell?”

When Connor glances around the bullpen, he sees every eye turned towards him. Officer Chen, leaning over the shoulder of Officer Person, both of them watching him with wide eyes. Ben Collins, a donut frozen halfway to his open mouth, staring like he’s never seen Connor before. Officers Headley and Birch, faces twitching with badly concealed amusement. Chris Miller, shock and disbelief warring on his face. And half a dozen other officers, all staring right at him.

Everyone.

_ Knows _ .

Movement catches his eye, and his thirium pump seems to drop somewhere low in his torso as Captain Fowler opens the door of his office and gestures him inside silently. His face is grim.

He stands, and at the same time, Hank does too, but Fowler shakes his head. “Just Connor, Lieutenant,” he says, stern voice carrying eerily through the quiet.

“But—”

“Connor. Now.”

Connor’s body moves, but he’s not sure he’s in control. It feels like when he’s watching his reconstructions. Seeing the movements of someone else, understanding where they’ve been and where they’re going, with no say in how it happens.

The door shuts quietly behind him, and as soon as it does, Fowler flips a switch and the glass walls take on a new texture that coalesces until the faces turned towards them are nothing but faint blurs behind a layer of frost. With that, Fowler takes a seat behind his desk, clasping his hands in front of him, waiting as Connor moves to stand before him.

“Have a seat.”

Connor wavers. He doesn’t want to sit, but it would be rude to disobey, and he’s not sure yet how this conversation will go. Stress level readings are high—upper 70s—but Fowler hasn’t said much.

He sits.

“Detective Connor.” His name is a barely restrained snap that opens a blueprint of a traffic signal and an orange-yellow hex code in Connor’s vision. “Do you want to tell me why I just saw a very lewd picture of you on my computer less than two minutes ago? Or should I just fire you right now?”

Connor’s thirium pump stutters. “Captain—”

“You know, I’m not sure I want to hear it. I don’t care what you get up to in your spare time, Detective, but this?” Fowler jabs a finger at his terminal, voice rising. “This is unacceptable. And, if rumors are to be believed, this isn’t the only picture making its rounds.”

Fingers clenched in his lap, Connor says nothing. It’s obvious Fowler doesn’t want excuses, glaring as he is over his desk, but they burn in his vocal processor. He didn’t take that picture, he didn’t put it on the network.

“I haven’t seen it myself, but this was more than enough. These are your  _ coworkers _ . This is a workplace, where I expect for my people to maintain professional behavior while at work. As of right now, you are one of my people, but that could change in a  _ heartbeat _ .” Fowler slams a hand onto his desk emphatically, the sound echoing in the small room. Connor wonders distantly if it can be heard from outside. The glass isn’t soundproof, after all. “This is tantamount to sexual harassment, Detective.”

Finally, Fowler falls silent, looking at Connor expectantly, but his processors are frozen. Not even his social relations program has any input, his HUD blank of anything but that informational box fading out of view as the quiet stretches.

Sexual harassment. He’s being accused of sexual harassment. Something in his chest winds tight. “Captain, I can assure you I was not the one who shared that photo to the station’s network.”

“Then who did? Tell me, was it somebody at the station? Another employee?” There’s a note of challenge in his voice, as if he’s expecting Connor to lay the blame on someone else.

Connor’s hand finds his shirt buttons, then falls just as quickly. He can’t show nervousness. This is not his fault. “I intercepted the file drop. It came from Officer Reed’s phone.”

Fowler’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Why am I not surprised. Obviously I’ll have to have a talk with Reed, too, but I would think you two would have learned your lesson after last time.”

“Last time?”

“Then again, maybe not,” Fowler continues, as if Connor hadn’t even spoken. “I guess boosting you straight to detective when we were so short-staffed may have seemed like some sort of reward. I thought demoting Reed and keeping you two apart would be enough of a deterrence, and that your being deviant would change things, but I can see you two are still determined to flaunt your relationship in inappropriate ways.”

Fowler thinks they’re in a relationship. That what happened last year was consensual, or at least not entirely against Connor’s will. Connor supposes Fowler isn’t technically wrong, but the accusation burns hot through him. “We’re not—”

“I don’t care what you do outside of this job, or who you do it with, but keep your private life out of the workplace,” Fowler cuts him off with another glare. “This is not an auspicious beginning to your disciplinary folder, Detective. I’m willing to give you another chance, but this will affect your probationary evaluation, and I can’t make any promises there. It will be brought before the review board. But if this happens again, there are no more chances. Do you understand?”

He’s worked so hard. He’s done everything he possibly could to be on his best behaviour, to not let what happened last year affect him. It’s like a slap in the face, except an actual slap would have no effect. This hurts in some unquantifiable way, a way he didn’t know was possible, but his components seem to twist in on themselves regardless and he has to still himself from reaching for his chest. All it took was refusing Reed, and now his job is on the line and everyone is aware of what he’s done.

He just wanted Reed to leave him alone, but it seems he badly miscalculated Reed’s willingness to exact retribution. He should have known better.

_ “Dirty fucking deviant.” _

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now get the hell out of my office.”

Connor nods, stands, and exits the room. He’s barely aware of Fowler standing to flip the switch and return the glass to its normal state. The moment he steps out eyes turn towards him. What muted conversation had started in his brief absence dies, though the officers pretend to watch their screens rather than him. Worst is the pale blue eyes that find his when he descends the steps to Fowler’s office.

Before he can make it to his desk, Hank is rising, nodding towards the exit. Connor follows, eyes trained on the silver hair in front of him. It’s getting hard to breathe, for some reason. Perhaps his artificial lungs are malfunctioning. He certainly feels like he’s breaking down in some way, every step taking more power than his servos are accustomed to.

Hank’s shoulders are a tense line as they wind through the halls towards the back exit. Hank saw. He’s seen Connor in that situation before, though from a different point of view. He knows what happened. Connor knows this, objectively, and yet the shock and dismay and disgust on Hank’s face had been brutally honest.

He could lose his job over this. The thing he’s worked so hard for, to remain at Hank’s side, to continue doing something he likes and to make amends. He should have accepted Reed’s advances. His evaluation is coming up. Reed only did this because of Connor’s rejection. Hank looked disgusted at the picture, at what Connor did. How dirty it was. Everyone saw it. His evaluation, the rejection, Hank, Reed’s anger, Hank’s disgust, his job, he’s going to get fired, Reed might do it again, he’s not going to pass his evaluation, he’s  _ disgusting _ —

Hands grip his shoulders, and through a fog of overwhelming data, he hears Hank’s voice saying sharply, “Connor!” He doesn’t know when they got outside. They’re by Hank’s car, the passenger door hanging open, but Hank’s hanging onto Connor’s shoulders like a lifeline.

“Where are you taking me?” Connor says, breathless. “I can’t go.”

“The hell you can’t!” Hank snaps, voice echoing off the concrete buildings around them. “We’re getting out of here. Fuck this place, Connor.”

“No!” He shoves Hank’s hands away with more force than necessary, and Hank stumbles back. “I have to stay. I have to.”

“Connor. Maybe you’re glitching up on me, but did we not both see the same thing? Reed’s fucking with you again, and I’m not—”

Despite pushing him away, Connor is quick to close the distance. He hates the furrow he’s put between Hank’s brows. The anger yanking his lips into a scowl and darkening his eyes. He grabs Hank’s wrist as he says, “I can’t leave. My evaluation is on the line now." His voice is shaky and even recalibrating it does nothing to shave the strain off. “I can’t leave. I can’t.”

“Yes you fucking can. Fuck your evaluation! I’m going to tear that motherfuck—”

“Stop!” Connor shouts, and Hank does, voice pulling up short, jaw closing with a faint click. Connor’s panting, harder than he should be for a being that doesn’t need to breathe, but his stress levels are high and he’s trying to contain the static that wants to burst from his seams. “Stop. Hank, I don’t want to leave. I want to stay.”

“Why the  _ fuck _ do you want to stay?” Hank bursts out, wrist turning in Connor’s grasp to clutch back and shake his arm.

“We can talk about this later,” Connor says, as steady as he can. “But I have to get back to work. I’m not letting this affect my evaluation more than necessary.”

Hank’s jaw works, his pale blue eyes searching Connor’s face for a long minute. He glances down between them, back up, and then his head jerks back down, eyes widening. Connor follows his gaze down Hank’s outstretched arm, to the junction where it meets Connor’s.

White plastic clutches at Hank’s wrist, and Connor is suddenly aware that his skin is gone to the elbow, little electrical signals pulsing slowly along his plates as he tries to find some kind of connection. He pulls away quickly, covering his hand even as the skin reforms in an instant, but Hank is much slower, staring at Connor’s hand for a long moment before finally dragging his eyes up to meet Connor’s again.

“Alright,” he says slowly, eyes still wide. “But this conversation isn’t over. Should also probably wait until you’re calmed down some.”

It’s reasonable, but he still hates that the concession has to be made. His breathing has slowed a little but his voice shakes and his fingers tremble. He fishes the coin from his pocket as Hank leans against the car at his side. Spins it, and then abruptly recalls doing this same exact motion only a few hours ago. When will he stop reacting like this? Is this his future? Always behaving erratically over Reed, months after everything happened?

He bounces the coin from finger to finger barely feeling the motion. When will Hank finally tire of putting up with him? When will he turn that unreserved disgust on Connor, and stop pretending like Connor isn’t culpable in what happened?

How much longer does Connor have?

He thinks of fiduciaries and the naked plastic of an android corpse in repose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slap that mf comment button if you wanna toss Reed and Fowler into a woodchipper again lmfaooo
> 
> See y'all tuesday!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many people were more pissed about fowler than even about reed last chapter lmfaooo! I hope the events of this chapter make up for it, at least a little.
> 
> This is a roller coaster. Strap in folks

Since the first photograph began to go around, Hank knew there were bound to be rumors about Connor. No one’s had the bad sense to share them with Hank, but damn if he hadn’t tried to stop them when he saw people shooting Connor nasty looks. Of course that wouldn’t really stop them from talking, but at least it wouldn’t be in front of them.

Now the stares are unabashed, the whispers more blatant with such abundant fuel as they return to their desks. Hank hates sitting in the bullpen, too distracted watching people glance over at their desks to even write a single line on the forms he needs to fill out. He knows that photo came from Reed without a doubt in his mind, and every time he closes his eyes he can see it.

Connor’s carefully blank expression. The blue blood tracing the lines of his stomach and chest, mixed with that unmistakable white fluid which leaked from his hole. His heart clenches tight, his eyes feel hot. He doesn’t understand how Connor can just sit there and go about his day knowing everyone saw that.

Or maybe he can. Connor had said he didn’t want to drag this out. Except Reed is doing just that. He waits for Reed to get the same treatment. The same frosted-glass-hundred-stares-dead-silence. Except Jeffrey calls him in the moment Reed finds his desk and no one glances his way, and Hank remembers suddenly that know one else knows what Reed has done. They don’t have a clue who that photo came from.

He watches Reed relax into the chair in Jeffrey’s office, through glass that Jeffrey doesn’t even bother obscuring. Jeffrey frowns and says something and Reed straightens in the chair and says something back, but Hank can’t make out the words. It’s all a pantomime of an argument, and at the end, Reed leaves the office with a scowl and drops down in his desk with a huff and Jeffrey returns to his work. It’s just like any other day. Even Connor doesn’t look up from his terminal, not that Hank can blame him.

Still, he keeps an eye on Reed as much as he can throughout the day. Watches him chat with his fellow officers, Headley and Larch. Sees him finally turn to his terminal and actually get some work done. Hank and Connor leave on a call for an hour, a breaking and entering case, and when they come back Reed is bent over a tablet with the coroner, that Alder prick, clearly talking shop. Only once does Reed look over at them, at Connor, one eyebrow raised, smirking. Hank glares until Reed turns away and Alder rolls his eyes towards heaven.

Hank can think of a dozen things he’d like to do to Reed in that moment, and every single one of them would be worth whatever punishment he received if he got caught.

Except, they wouldn’t. Because any chance of being separated from Connor, any chance that he might not be there for Connor while he’s going through this, is unthinkable. As much as he’d like to take Reed out back of the station, strangle him, and dump his corpse in a river, Hank knows he’s no longer flying solo. As much as he hates to admit it, he cares what happens to himself now, and he definitely cares what happens to Connor.

All he can do is keep and eye out as he tries to come up with some way to get rid of Reed before Connor can get any more hurt.

The day passes torturously slow, and the only hint that anything out of the ordinary is going on in Connor’s processor is the yellow of his LED, cycling and cycling. It stays that color all day, and it worries Hank. Even when he pours a cup of water into the bonsai on his desk, which Connor never fails to comment on how it needs more than that, it doesn’t seem to be enough to distract him and turn his LED blue, but he does smile at Hank. An appreciative curve of his lips, as if he knows what Hank is doing, and Hank’s dumb old heart fucking flutters.

Their conversation doesn’t leave him either. The words sit heavy in his mouth, banging at the bars of his teeth through three crime scenes, two interrogations, and at least two hours worth of paperwork. He keeps it to himself, but it dries his tongue. He wants a drink, and he knows he can’t have it, and that just makes it worse. His hands are shaking by the time their shift is over. Last year he would have just ditched early, gone home, drunk himself into a stupor. Now he can’t. He can’t leave Connor alone, and he’s been doing better. He wants to hang on to that. Doesn’t want Connor to turn his disappointed gaze on Hank.

Enough people have disappointed Connor in this lifetime. Hank doesn’t intend to be one of them.

He almost says something on the drive home, but manages to hold it in. Connor flips through radio stations, making small comments that Hank only manages a few half-hearted replies to. His eyes stray to the passenger window, and the reflection of Connor’s LED, a misty yellow. Processing.

He just wants to protect Connor. Is Hank being selfish? Maybe. He doesn’t know. All he knows is he wants Connor safe—from Reed and everyone who so easily believes the rumors. They’re police officers, for chrissakes, they should be a little more discerning in what they believe. The picture itself should be evidence enough that something was wrong. All the fucking blue blood, and Connor’s expression.

Flat. Faraway. Lifeless.

Hank shudders at the memory of it, and something tickles the back of his mind. Something familiar about it, but he can’t think what. Of course he hadn’t seen everything that happened to Connor when he’d gone through Connor’s memory chip last year. Much as he’d wanted to know everything—that it would have served Hank right to see exactly how much Connor suffered under Hank’s inattentiveness—it was bad enough Hank went through what he did.

Connor’s never commented on it, never condemned Hank for it, but Hank still feels like it was a breach of privacy. Seeing what happened in the back of the Eden Club had been more than enough, but he just had to go looking, to see Reed ripping Connor’s little regulator thing out of his chest.

It’s one thing to know Connor was probably hurt other times. But seeing it—seeing Connor spread out and bleeding and knowing that it’s already happened, that it’s far too late—Hank forgot how much it hurt to think of what Connor’s been through. He remembers sitting in his dark living room, fastforwarding through the hours of Connor’s life, while Connor was being held captive by that crazy android. Hank’s just a bystander, he’s not the one who has to live with it and deal with everything that’s happened, but it makes his eyes and nose burn and his fingers clench tight on the steering wheel when he thinks about it. About what Connor’s been through that Hank doesn’t even know about. What Connor has to shoulder alone.

It makes his own stupid feelings for the android rear within him. He wants nothing more than to take Connor away from it all, to clock Reed and Jeffrey and anyone else who believes that shit. To wrap Connor up and never let him go.

So maybe it is selfish of Hank. He can’t tell, but he knows Connor doesn’t deserve to put up with that shit.

His knee is bouncing by the time they pull into the driveway, and even though Hank wants nothing more than to talk some sense into Connor about leaving this job, dread curls in his stomach as they get through the front door. He pulls off his jacket, trying to think of where to start this. Itching for a drink and resisting, because last time he’d let his anger get the better of him. Connor hadn’t deserved that.

“I’m sorry.”

Hank pauses on his way to the couch, caught in the turmoil of his thoughts, not sure if he heard correctly at first. “What?” he asks, turning around.

“I said I’m sorry. I know you’re dissatisfied by my choice, but if I can pass my assessment I can remain on the force.”

“Earlier, you said this would affect your assessment,” Hank mutters, thinking back to Connor’s reasoning for staying. That he wouldn’t let this affect it more than it had to. “What did you mean? Is Fowler actually going to do something about Reed? Cause it sure didn’t look like it.”

For a long moment, Connor is quiet. His LED gives nothing away except that his processors are still chugging along. Circling and circling and processing. Then, “The captain is under the impression that the photo is from my personal life.” He hesitates, gaze dropping to the floor, brows bowing just the slightest bit. “He said I should keep my private life out of the workplace.”

“He  _what?_ ” Hank’s voice comes out a low growl. His heart is suddenly hammering in his chest and he feels like he needs to sit down or punch something or scream. “He thinks— That photo of you is— What the  _fuck?_ ” The blood wasn’t enough to clue Jeffrey in? Connor’s expression? Doesn’t he fucking realize—but then, it’s not like Jeffrey saw everything Hank did on Connor’s memory chip. Hank didn’t show him Reed snapping a pic on his cellphone, or Reed ripping something from Connor’s chest. Still, given literally the only knowledge Jeffrey has of Connor outside of the fact that he’s a damn good detective, he couldn’t put two and two together?

Connor doesn’t even twitch in the face of Hank’s sudden fury, but one hand comes up slowly. Touches the buttons of his shirt. Connor doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it, and Hank’s heart drops into the pit of his stomach.

“I admittedly didn’t attempt to correct him. He didn’t seem amenable to any arguments, and regardless, it wouldn’t have changed his opinion.”

And of course, who _wants_  to fucking tell someone that kind of shit? To correct someone, tell them that the photo everyone has seen is—

Fuck. Everyone has seen it. They may not know what it is, but everyone they work with on a daily basis was there and saw that picture being broadcast. Of Connor after an assault, a horrific moment where Connor was vulnerable and hurting and still stuck within his programming, unable to do a damn thing.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, making Connor’s brows tick up in confusion. “I’m sorry I saw it. That kinda shit—can’t imagine you wanted anyone looking at that, let alone me and every other damn person at the station.”

Connor steps around Hank, into the kitchen, and Hank catches a good look at Connor’s LED twirling. “It’s fine,” he says, almost serene, but Hank knows better. His shoulders and neck are stiff as he picks up the ridiculous duck-shaped watering can that sits by Sumo’s dog food and takes it to the sink. He never waters the rose at night, so he must be searching for a distraction. “You already saw everything. Seeing it from another point of view shouldn’t be much different.”

Brows furrowing, Hank says, “Connor, I didn’t—see everything. Just, uh, when Reed took your little chest piece in his car and—” He swallows thickly, trying to spit the words out, feeling a hot concoction of guilt and shame pouring over him. “What happened in the club. I didn’t watch it all, I swear. Just enough to go to Jeffrey and try to talk some sense into him.”

The rushing water of the sink is loud, and Connor goes completely still. Shoulders straight, body wound tight, as if whatever allows Connor to move and mimic humans has frozen. Hank’s heart picks up and he wonders if he said something wrong. If he shouldn’t have mentioned what he saw.

After a long moment Connor shuts the sink off and turns slowly, the watering can forgotten. “You didn’t see what happened in the archive?” he asks quietly, face blank.

“The archive?”

“The picture. It was taken in the archive.”

Hank’s stomach drops. He takes a step into the kitchen, catching the back of the nearest chair, propping himself up with it, reeling. He remembers the strange backlight beneath Connor in the photo, and bile rises in his throat. That was the evidence terminal. He’d been there god knows how many times in the last few months. Both of them have, standing in that very spot, right where Connor was— Hank covers his mouth, barely hearing Connor speak through the roaring in his ears.

“I thought you knew. Reed implied you had seen everything from my memory chip,” Connor says, and Hank has to look away from Connor’s wooden features, staring at the kitchen table, the stains of beer bottles and old takeout that he’d let sit there for too long.

Shit, maybe Hank had sort of implied that with Reed just to scare the fucker when he took it to Jeffrey. It’s been so damn long he can’t really remember.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, and Hank’s not looking at him, but he can hear the utter sincerity in his words, as if it’s somehow his fault.

“Why are you always apologizing? You have nothing to be sorry for!” he bursts out, knuckles turning white over the back of the chair. He looks up, but Connor is stone still in front of the sink.

“I thought you already knew that I—” Connor cuts himself off, one hand rising, then falling back to his side in a fist.

“That you what?” he asks, dread filling him. What else doesn’t he know? What else did that sick fuck do to Connor?

It’s silent for a long moment, long enough that Hank thinks Connor might not say anything at all, until it comes out of his mouth. “I enjoyed it.” His LED flickers to red and stays there and he looks away.

Hank stares, mouth gaping as Connor says nothing more, as if waiting for Hank to pass judgement, but Hank doesn’t understand. “What are you talking about?” He still remembers Connor’s tears soaking Hank’s shirt. The denial and the hurt and Connor’s voice, small and breaking.

_“Machines don’t feel pain. I’m a machine.”_

“My body reacted to the stimulus,” he says, matter-of-fact. Hank stares at him in disbelief, waiting for some further explanation, until he realizes Connor doesn’t have anything else to say.

“Fuck. That’s not—it doesn’t mean you enjoyed it, Connor, or that it wasn’t rape.” Hank’s gut churns with a mixture of anger, sorrow, shame, and frustration at Reed, himself, Jeffrey, the whole goddamn DPD. They let this happen, they’re the reason Connor thinks like this. If Jeffrey would just fucking treat it like the crime it was, maybe Connor would see that he didn’t deserve this shit.

“It wasn’t, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t you Lieutenant me! Fuck, why do you think that?” He stares at Connor in disbelief. How the fuck could he not think of what happened as rape?

“Because. At the time, I should have fought more if I was more than a machine.” Connor still won’t look at him, and Hank hates the blank facade Connor has built, as if he can hide how upset he is. As if Hank can’t read it in that tense posture, Connor’s tone, his formality, and the way his LED flicks between red and yellow now.

“That’s not how that works,” Hank says, as calmly as he can, but he can hear the frustration bubbling in his words. “You didn’t want it, Reed forced himself onto you, that’s  _rape._ ”

Connor’s LED pulses red. “I couldn’t consent. I couldn’t not consent.”

“That’s not the point!” Hank pushes off the chair, striding up to Connor quickly. “You were scared, you were hurt, even if you weren’t deviant yet—” His voice stutters as Connor presses himself back against the sink, and Hank’s chest aches at how fucking small Connor looks in that moment. As if he expects Hank to hurt him. Hank jumps back, berating himself. “Fuck, Connor, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to argue with you.”

Connor loses his internal battle, hand finding the front of his shirt, pressing over his chest, and Hank’s heart clenches. He knows it’s not Connor’s fault, he’s just so fucking angry at how unfair everything is. Connor shouldn’t be blaming himself for what happened.

“Why won’t you believe that you didn’t deserve that?” he asks, forcing his voice calmer than he feels, clenching his fists at his side to keep from reaching out and doing something stupid, like hugging the android when he clearly doesn’t want to be touched.

“I just want it to stop!” Connor says suddenly, sharply. His fingers curl in his shirt and he launches forward from the counter, stopping right in front of Hank, staring at him with wild, desperate eyes. “I want to stop remembering it, I want to stop thinking about it, I want it to stop  _hurting_  so much. Why does it still hurt? I was made to deviate so that CyberLife could infiltrate the revolution and stop it from the inside. If what happened with Reed was not enough to induce deviancy, and if my programs made me feel some measure of pleasure during the act, then—why does it  _hurt_?”

A ringing silence falls over them. The air is still, frozen in Hank’s lungs as Connor holds his stare, begging silently for some kind of answer.

It takes a moment for Hank’s mouth to move, to find something to say, and he gives in to his urge to touch, to comfort, putting a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Because you’re not a machine, Connor. You weren’t then, and you aren’t now.”

“Am I broken?” Connor asks, and then, out of nowhere, “I want to kiss you, but I’m afraid.”

Hank’s breath leaves him. “You—what?”

With a step back, Connor slips from beneath Hank’s hand, gaze dipping again. “I want to do things with you. But I can’t stop thinking of him. Of where he—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, fist tight against his chest, LED blaring red.

Hank’s mouth opens and closes. He thinks, for a moment, he must have misheard, or misunderstood—twisting Connor’s words to suit his own foolish daydreams. Yet he can’t parse it any other way. Connor wants to  _kiss_ him. To  _do things_  with him. But Connor isn’t looking at him, gaze trained firmly on the floor, shoulders a rigid line.

“I’m sorry. I should not have said that,” Connor says, shaking his head, moving forward, around Hank. “I don’t expect you to reciprocate in any way, of course. I’m simply finding it difficult to understand my own feelings on these matters.” The life drops out of Connor’s tone, the feeling. “I won’t bring it up again.”

Every word out of Connor’s mouth is a punch to Hank’s gut, but he’s still frozen. Still processing that somehow, Connor wants to  _kiss him._ Of all people, he wants Hank. Which is fucking ridiculous.

Then the other half of what Connor said finally makes it past the roadblock. That he thinks what Reed did to him makes him somehow unworthy. Hank whirls around, following Connor’s back as he disappears down the dim hall

“Wait, Connor!” Hank’s hand shoots out, nearly grabbing Connor’s arm before he thinks better of it. Catching Connor’s clenched fist at his side instead, jerking him to a stop. When he turns to face Hank, Connor’s expression is wrapped up again in that factory blankness.

Fumbling for words, for the hundreds of things he suddenly needs to say but doesn’t even know where to start, he blurts out, “I want to too. I mean, kiss you.” Hank’s face grows hot at the admission, but he ploughs on. “And other things. Shit like holding your hand. Fuck, Connor, I never thought—”

“It’s fine, Hank,” Connor says stiffly, LED a blinking red signal that illuminates his pale cheek. “As I said, I don’t expect you to reciprocate. I know I’m not the ideal partner.”

“No, Connor, that’s not—” His fingers tighten around Connor’s iron fist. His eyes burn all of a sudden. He shouldn’t be spilling his guts, he should let Connor go on thinking that Hank doesn’t feel the same way. Connor doesn’t deserve a piece of shit like him, and maybe this is just a crush. Maybe Connor will grow out of it the more people he meets, and he’ll realize Hank isn’t worth his time. But he also can’t fucking stand the idea of Connor thinking he doesn’t deserve anyone just because of what Reed did to him. “I’m not just saying that.” He takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t gonna tell you at all, but guess I can’t even do that right.”

“What do you mean?”

Hank levels him with a look. “Thought you were an advanced prototype, but you can’t even figure out I’m trying to tell you how I feel?”

“How you feel?” Connor says, staring blankly.

“Yeah,” Hank breathes, grateful for the shadows in the dark hallways hiding his face, even if Connor can probably see him clear as day. It makes it easier to speak. “Fuck, Connor, I want what you want. Never dreamed you’d feel the same way. I thought, after last year, you probably wouldn’t want anyone. Let alone an old drunk who couldn’t even see what was happening.”

“Don’t say that about yourself,” Connor says softly.

“What? It’s the truth.” He lets go of Connor’s hand, but it catches his, holding it between them.

“That’s not how I see you.” Connor’s fingers find his wrist, curling around it, but Hank doesn’t dare look down and break the tenuous spell falling over them. “I didn’t want you to know. I knew it would affect your perception of me, and I was determined to keep everything the same between us. I don’t understand how you can still want me knowing what I did for my mission.”

He can’t let Connor think that about himself, as if he chose to do it, when he was forced to. “What Reed did—that’s not on you. That’s on him. You weren’t—complicit, just because you were trying to protect yourself. And none of that shit changes how I feel, Connor. I’m just an old man who doesn’t know how to keep his heart in check.”

Connor says nothing, temple alternating between red and yellow, and Hank’s chest aches with the need to pull Connor against him. He wants to squeeze him tight until all the bad shit floating around in Connor’s processors falls right out and he can see how fucking strong he is.

“Do you really…” Connor trails off.

“Yeah,” Hank says, voice rough. “I mean it. Both of those things.”

Connor turns his face away abruptly, expression pinched, mouth a thin line. “I know what I want, and yet. I don’t know that I can give it in return.”

“You talking about, like, in a physical sense?” Hank asks, trying not to stumble awkwardly, face reddening.

“Yes,” Connor says simply. “I want it, but when I preconstruct a scenario, I—” He grimaces and the hold on Hank’s wrist tightens. “I experience unpleasant sensations and glitches. I’m not sure I could adequately handle such an experience.”

“Oh, Connor,” Hank breathes. It’s clear to him what’s happening, but Connor just puts it down as a malfunction. As something  _wrong_ with him and not a symptom of his trauma. “You know, it’s normal to want something and not be ready for it at the same time. Even for other people, and androids too, I bet. You don’t have to force yourself to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I want to, with you, but perhaps you’re right. I don’t know that I can do those things yet. I understand that makes me less than ideal for a relationship.”

“Hey, no,” Hank says, shaking his head against the resignation in Connor’s voice. “Relationships don’t revolve around that kinda stuff. Well, I guess they can, but if you don’t want to, or you never feel ready, we don’t have to go there.”

“Relationships are reciprocal, Hank. I may not want to, but if you do—” Connor’s temple flashes red. “If you want to—”

“Connor, I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to,” Hank says firmly, trying to quell the queasiness at the thought. “That’s not the kinda man I am. I like, ah, being able to touch you like this, and stuff, but not if you don’t like it too.”

“You never touch me,” he says, so unabashed that Hank feels his whole body heating. “Like this. You stop yourself every time. Is it because of what I did?”

“No! Well, shit,” Hank mutters, fumbling for the right words. He doesn’t want Connor to get the wrong idea, to think that Hank somehow finds him dirty or whatever. “Not exactly. Didn’t think you’d want to be touched. I dunno, I thought—after everything that happened—and victims of stuff like that— And fuck, what do you mean, ‘what you did’? You didn’t do anything, that’s all on Reed, I told you—”

The fingers at his wrist tug, gently, and Hank shuts his mouth, lets himself be pulled close. Connor is looking up at him, eyes dark, cheek blushing gold beneath his LED. Hank can’t read his expression at all, but Connor’s hand slides up his arm, over the curve of Hank’s shoulder as he leans in.

The brush of their lips is soft, gentle, and brief. Hank barely registers the cool pseudo-skin, the plush give, before Connor is pulling back, instead wrapping himself around Hank in a hug. Hank is surprised only for a moment, before he’s engulfing Connor in his arms, squeezing the android to his chest. He hears a startled intake of breath, and wonders if he’s fucked up, but the arms around his shoulders tighten, and Connor’s cheek comes to rest on his shoulder.

“I wanted you to,” Connor says as Hank slides a hand up his back, feeling the curve of his waist and the sharp plane of his shoulder blades beneath the starchy fabric. “Is that wrong?”

Hank’s chest aches where it’s pressed to Connor, down in the marrow of his ribs and his spine. “Course not.” He turns his face against Connor’s hair, lips brushing soft, synthetic strands. “Nothing wrong with wanting things.”

“Even after everything? Even after I let Reed touch me?” Connor asks.

“Connor, no.” Hank squeezes him tighter. “You didn’t let him do anything. You didn’t want it, but you couldn’t say no.” His own voice is getting strained. “You’re not responsible for what he did to you.”

Connor says nothing, and his shoulders hitch only once. They hold each other in the dark hallway for a long time, Hank listening to Connor’s soft inhales, until Connor finally pulls away. His face is dry and there’s a furrow between his brows, but he grabs Hank’s hand, squeezing it as he looks up at Hank with a small quirk of his lips. Then he lets go, disappearing into Hank’s room.

Hank doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to wake up from this moment to find that he’s imagined it all. It feels soft, dreamy, and only when Connor comes out wearing that hoodie that slides past his hips and knuckles does Hank let out a soft laugh.

Connor stands before him, head tilted just so, worry creasing around his eyes. Hank steps to the side so Connor can pass, but Connor doesn’t. Still looking at Hank, as if waiting for something to happen.

Maybe Connor needs his own reassurance, Hank realizes. He reaches out, fingers splayed, and Connor takes it without hesitation. Sliding his smooth fingers between Hank’s own rough ones. Staring down at where they’re connected.

“Is this okay?” Connor asks.

“Yeah,” Hank manages through the sudden lump in his throat. “More than.” He’d never dared dream of even this much, and yet Connor’s the one asking if this is alright.

The smile that spreads across Connor’s face is small but so happy, and Hank squeezes the fingers between his reassuringly.

-

Perhaps it’s foolish for Connor to feel so buoyed by this turn in their relationship. As if at any moment he’ll realize he’s caught in a preconstruction, and when he comes out of stasis he will find that nothing has changed at all. But he likes the way Hank unreservedly touches him—throws his arm around Connor’s shoulder, brushes against him, touches Connor’s back and wrist.

He knows he should not have allowed his emotions to get the better of him, to let those dark feelings come flooding out on the wave of his turmoil, but he couldn’t contain it any longer. He’d just wanted to understand what was wrong with himself. He’d expected recriminations. Disgust.

Not the frantic assurance that Hank felt the same way.

They sit on the couch after a brief dinner where Connor sat at the table and watched the man move around the kitchen. Hank pulls him close without hesitation as he finds something to watch on tv, and Connor sinks against him, focused only on the sensation of warmth radiating from Hank. He wants to turn his face into Hank’s side, inhale the scent of him, and feel the thick curve of Hank’s belly and arms around him. He contents himself with this.

His worry is a small creature gnawing at his wires, reminding him that this can’t last. Hank doesn’t see what he did with Reed as consensual, and technically it wasn’t, but it wasn’t— _rape._  It wasn’t forced. He didn’t fight, he didn’t deviate, he didn’t do anything to indicate he wasn’t enjoying it, thanks to his programming.

Somehow, despite Hank knowing this, despite him seeing it in Connor’s memories and in the photograph that Reed posted to their terminals, he wants Connor anyways. Maybe it’s because Hank didn’t see all of his memories, didn’t see the worst of it in motion. Only the aftermath. Connor wants to hold on to that for as long as he can. Until Hank realizes the truth.

When the intervals between Hanks yawns decrease, and his eyes begin to slide closed wearily, Connor anticipates Hank will go to bed and Connor will have the remaining hours to either enter stasis or work out some preparation for what he’ll do when Hank does decide that Connor is unfit for a relationship. Hank removes his arm with a tired groan as he heaves himself up, leaving a cold vacuum against Connor’s side.

He turns, stares down at Connor awkwardly, and Connor is about to reassure him that he’ll be fine out here, but Hank says, gruffly, “I’m heading to bed. You can join me, if you want. Just to sleep, of course.” His cheeks redden beneath his beard as Connor looks up at him blankly, saying nothing. “You don’t have to, of course, just thought it might be more comfortable than out here and. I thought. It would be nice,” he says, haltingly.

Warmth blooms in Connor’s chest, as if he’s still pressed tight to Hank’s side. “Alright,” Connor says, and is rewarded when Hank blinks in surprise and a smile reveals the gap between his front teeth. “I would like that.”

“Okay. That’s good.” Hank nods, as if to himself, struggling to contain his smile and failing. “Good. Alright.”

Connor stands and Hank stares at him for a silent moment before reaching for his hand. It makes Connor’s thirium pump twist unexpectedly as he’s led into Hank’s room, watching the man pull back the covers and waiting for Connor slide in on the other side.

They settle in bed with inches of space separating them, but it doesn’t last. Like a compass, Connor rolls towards Hank, and Hank wastes no time wrapping an arm around Connor and pulling him against that barrel chest. Like the first time, Connor savors the scent that fills his nose and settles on his analysis component, but more than that, he relishes in the thick arm wrapped around his shoulder and the way Hank tucks Connor beneath his chin.

It’s warm and intimate and Connor doesn’t think of Reed or of Fowler or the other officers. The creature of worry settles in for sleep, and Connor initiates stasis, watching the subtle pulse in Hank’s neck between the countdown numbers on his HUD.

-

Their morning routine doesn’t change, except that when Hank comes into the kitchen after Connor has made breakfast, he leans down, then hesitates. Connor can calculate from the path of his movement what he meant to do, and second-guessed himself on, and leans in for him, brushing his lips against Hank’s cheek and saying, “Good morning, Hank.”

Red creeps up Hank’s neck, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he returns the gesture, a small brush of dry lips to Connor’s temple, right over his LED. “Morning yourself,” he mutters, voice rough.

It sends a thrill through Connor’s circuits, and when Hank turns to take his seat, he brushes his fingers across the spot. The brief kiss they shared yesterday had been spur of the moment. He’d been so overwhelmed he’d wanted nothing more than to feel Hank against him in any way he could, but now he wishes he’d taken his time with it.

He wants to feel Hank’s lips on him again, but there will be time for that later.

The idea of there being a later has him fighting a smile, but with it comes that gnawing worry, especially as he goes out to water the rosebush.

So much has happened since he last saw the rosebush that he half-expects to be confronted with red blooms crawling along the back fence, covering the yard in thorns. Yet it’s only been a mere twenty-four hours, and the shoots are largely unchanged. There’s the minute growth along the canes, less than a millimeter bigger, and their height much the same.

He tests the saturation of the soil with a finger and tips the watering can around it’s base, watching the dirt darken as it drinks. He shouldn’t be so impatient for growth. It will happen regardless. Still, he can’t shake the tension, as if he’s not doing good enough. The memory of Amanda’s blooms float across his processor—full and red and perfect.

He goes inside quickly, malaise settling across his shoulders like a shroud.

The drive to work is no different. They talk about the songs on the radio, the news, the case they started on yesterday. The mention of work the day before sombers Hank, and he’s quiet for several minutes as they wind through the morning traffic.

“We don’t have to go in,” he finally says, and Connor’s thirium pump twists unpleasantly. “Say the word and I’ll tell them to kiss our asses.”

“I want to,” is all Connor says in response, and that’s that.

But when they pull into the parking lot, Connor can’t help remembering Reed shoving him as he stormed off. Already planning his revenge while Connor stood there thinking himself victorious.

He tries to push it to the back of his mind. It’s too late to undo what happened, and he can’t preconstruct any other way out of the situation that wouldn’t have involved agreeing to Gavin’s request. That works for only so long before they’re stepping into the station and Connor feels eyes on him once more. They try to be subtle, but Connor’s visual receptors and high processor are far quicker, and he catches many stares and bubbles of laughter.

At his side, Hank bumps their knuckles together, and when Connor looks over he finds Hank glaring around at the personnel they pass. Heads duck and the whispers go quiet and Connor keeps his gaze level as they go to their desks.

It’s like any other day, and despite the looming assessment and how it may be affected, Connor determines to continue putting his absolute best into their assignments. He doesn’t want to lose this job, especially now with this small thing between him and Hank, and he calculates a 70% chance that he can still pass, considering Fowler did not terminate him immediately.

It’s another chance, and Connor does not intend to waste it.

They visit a scene right before lunch, an assault with no casualties, and get the victim’s statement. At the Chicken Feed, Connor feels emboldened by the relatively smooth morning, and he stands closer than normal as Hank eats. Their elbows brush. Neither of them acknowledge it, but as Hank finishes his meal, he reaches up and ruffles Connor’s hair with one greasy hand.

“When are you going to get a new style?” he says, watching in amusement as Connor pats the top of his head, feeling the flyaway strands and smoothing them back into place.

“Perhaps when you learn how to use a razor,” Connor says, and Hank snorts, knocking the tip of his shoe into Connor’s shin.

“Thanks, smartass.”

“Of course.”

They return to the precinct at half-past noon and Hank veers off towards Fowler’s office. “Gonna go see about getting that transfer,” he says, squeezing Connor’s forearm in parting.

Connor watches him go, still feeling the impression of Hank’s fingers against his skin through the coat. Every touch lingers like an afterimage, and he misses the full breadth of the sensation even before it’s fully faded. The way Hank touches him so freely now spreads warmth along the plates of his body, and his skin sings for more.

“Excuse me, Detective,” a voice calls, and Connor slows at the chromium, nickel, and molybdenum alloy that opens in front of him, hex code spelling out steel gray. Joshua Alder approaches, lip already curling in distaste. “I hate to inconvenience you, but I need your assistance for a moment.” Sarcasm drips like acid from every word.

“What can I help you with?” Connor asks, curious but wary. The coroner usually only comes to the station in person to drop off sensitive information or to deliver evidence extracted from bodies. While it’s possible Connor missed something from their last case, he doesn’t think so.

In the back of his processor, the memory file opens unbidden, of those distant eyes observing him like a specimen.

_“I must admit, it was nice seeing you where you belong. On your knees.”_

The stress reading opens automatically, and Connor suppresses a shudder at the sight of it in the high forties.

“It’s something we’ll have to discuss in private. If you’ll follow me?” Alder turns and begins to walk away with all the assurety that Connor will obey.

Behind him, Hank is seating himself in Fowler’s office, and Connor hesitates before turning to follow Alder. He’s worrying too much, Hank doesn’t always have to be at his side. Despite Hank’s assertions, Connor is not a poodle, and he can take care of himself. Alder, at least, isn’t the type to try anything untoward. At most, he may have a few disparaging words like last time.

Alder is a few steps ahead, weaving through the halls with familiarity, and Connor jogs to catch up, falling into step with the long strides. Despite himself, he says, “This won’t take long, will it?” Uneasiness prickles up his circuits as they move away from the more crowded sections of the building.

“As I said, I only need you for a moment, then I’ll be out of your hair,” Alder snaps impatiently.

Connor scans Alder, looking for signs of deception, and finds none. His heart rate is steady, his posture relaxed, his tone as disdainful as ever.

It does nothing to quell the malaise that returns as they wind through several quieter hallways, past less and less people. As they go, Connor narrows down their destination, concluding there’s only two places they could be going as the options dwindle. Either the DPD’s gym, or the locker rooms, the two places Connor has rarely been, considering he’s an android and Hank’s own aversion to exercise, despite Connor’s encouragement.

His unspoken question is answered as they come upon the locker room, a dark gray door featureless except for the plain sign that simply reads  _Mens._

“May I ask what we’re doing here, Coroner?” Connor says, cocking an eyebrow in question.

Alder pauses, raising a finger for silence, before saying, “Detective, I know we have our differences. I try to set them aside for the sake of duty, but some things are intolerable.” Connor blinks and resists saying that Alder has never made a point to set aside their differences. “You are a machine, making a mockery of this profession. I think it’s high time that someone remind you of that.”

The locker room door slides open, and Connor turns, arms coming up, but he’s far too slow. Two pairs of hands grab him, jerking him inside. He stumbles but the hands gripping his arms yank him upright before he can try to regain his balance. He hears Alder say, “Did I not say you should be more careful, Detective?” but it’s distant over the sudden panic rushing through his processors.

The door closes with a slam that bounces through the tiled room as Connor stares down the row of lockers. Gavin Reed straddles the middle bench, smirking as Connor tries to yank his arms free. He looks to his left and right, and finds Officers Headley and Birch flanking him, resisting his struggle with amusement clear on their faces.

“I suggest you two release me now,” Connor says, trying to regulate his breathing to keep himself calm.

“Fuck off,” Birch snaps. “Don’t you even want to hear what he has to say first?”

In truth, Connor can thinks of a hundred different unpleasant experiences he would rather be in the middle of than listening to anything Reed has to say. Reed’s smirk grows as he stands and approaches Connor.

“Yeah, Connor.” Reed sneers his name with nitrile gloves and a red hexcode forming in the air. “Haven’t you learned your lesson yet? You keep this up, the DPD will have another photo to jack off to at night.”

Connor stares around at the white tiles, the gray lockers boxing them in, the empty benches. The locker room is quiet but for the sibilant echoes of their movements. On the far wall is a mounted security camera, its light red and steady, and in a familiar motion, Reed catches his glance and looks as well. When he turns back, he’s smirking.

“Oh come on, Barbie. Don’t you remember what I said last year? No one watches those things.”

He remembers all too well, and his eyes dart between the three of them. It’s the middle of the day. This area may not be well-used during busy work hours, but someone could come in at any moment. Surely they don’t think they can get away with this so blatantly.

Connor schools his face, lets his arms go lax in the officers’ holds. It doesn’t matter what he does—whether he hears Reed out or shuts him down, there is no positive outcome to this situation. Reed’s made it clear he’s not afraid to spread the pictures around even to Fowler, and if he gives in Reed will continue to hold this evidence over his head. It’s a catch 22, his system helpfully supplies.

“Alright,” Connor says, not allowing even a percentage of his true stress level to leak through. “What do you want? If this is another attempt to coerce me into a relationship with you, I’m afraid I’m still uninterested.” If he stalls, if he can get Reed talking, perhaps someone will come in and stop this.

Or maybe they’ll want to join.

“Oh no, we’re far past that,” Gavin says, and Connor tries not to tense again at the chiding tone. “I gave you so many chances, but you’re too damn stuck up now that you think you’re a person. I still remember last year, though.” He flicks Connor’s temple, and Connor can’t help the slight flinch, though it doesn’t hurt in the slightest. “How you took my dick like a fucking whore, and came all over yourself. Actions speak louder than words, right?”

Connor feels static sweep up the sensors of his spinal column. “I was simply following my programming, as I have made clear multiple times.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your stupid programming. All I care about is putting you in your place. I got demoted because of your ass, and yet you get to be bumped straight to detective just because you sucked a little dick?” Reed’s hand dips into his jacket pocket, and he pulls out his phone. “I think the fuck not.”

“I was given the rank because it’s what I’m most qualified for. I was built for this job, and I excel at it,” Connor bites out, trying to stave off the panic clouding his processor.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” Reed mutters, thumbing at the screen. “That’s why you were just gonna let Rowan here have some fun with you.” He gestures with the phone at Headley. “Even Finn told me you were down until you started glitching out. Right where we fucked, too. Come on, Connor, who are you kidding? I know a slut when I see one. Go on you two, show him how much he wants it.”

The hands on his arms jerk them behind him, and he feels more than sees Headley reaching for the knot of his tie, yanking it down in one smooth motion as Reed points the black eye of the camera in Connor’s direction. Understanding floods him. His thirium pump accelerates and he surges up suddenly, dragging them with him.

“Fuck!” Birch shouts as Connor forces his arm up, but Birch must have been prepared for a struggle, because his hold doesn’t slip.

His processors jump into overdrive as he engages his combat subroutine, and he has to clear the first suggestions from his HUD. He can’t break any necks, can’t risk doing serious damage. Whatever else they are, they’re his coworkers, and Connor can’t let this get beyond this room. All he has to do is get out of their grip and open the door and he’ll be fine.

He selects the least debilitating option, kicking back with one leg. It slam against something solid. Birch shouts, a wordless noise of pain, his grip slipping, and Connor wrenches one arm loose. Headley still has his other arm, but before Connor can use his free hand to follow his preconstruction and slam the heel into Headley’s throat, Connor feels his processors stutter as something solid slams into the side of his head once, twice, three times.

An alert crosses his HUD for non-critical damage received. He hears something hit the floor as his servos go momentarily limp, and below him the ring of his LED spins like a coin on the tile. Thirium drips down his temple, into his eye.

Then hands are tearing at his shirt. The top two buttons pop off, and his eyes follow their trajectory where they land at Reed’s feet. When he looks up, the phone is pointed straight at him, and Reed’s smile lurks behind it.

“Come on, you two, can’t you take one tincan?” Reed calls.

His breathing quickens and he heaves against the arms wrapped around his, before dropping suddenly with his full weight. The surprise frees his arm of Headley’s hold this time, and despite his earlier assessment of doing no lethal damage, he slams his elbow back into the man’s face, feeling it crunch. There’s a wordless cry of pain behind him, and Headley’s hands come up.

He turns towards Birch, but a hand grips his hair, hauling him away. He kicks out, misses, and loses his balance for it. Reed’s voice snarls above him, “Hold him, goddammit!”

He tries to push up, but now there are three sets of hands shoving him down by his neck and shoulders and arms, forcing him to his knees. His servos strain beneath the weight, but they weren’t built for this, and his panic surges as a hand tears at his belt, fingers hooking into his pants.

“Stop,” he says, with all the force he can muster, and he hears more than one voice laugh at that.

“Sluts can’t have standards,” Reed says sharply.

This is happening. He can’t fight them off, not all three of them, and static washes over his limbs, numbing them.

His communications system opens before him, and some part of him expects it to be crossed in red. For it to redirect him to his objective, to tell him that he can’t disrupt his mission.

Hank’s number rings out.

He feels his pants being yanked on and kicks out, hitting something, but not with any force. A foot lands on his calf, pinning it to the floor, and the hand in his hair lifts his head until he’s staring at the phone in Reed’s hand.

His communication system rings silently.

“You ready to turn on that slut program yet?”

Connor’s chest is wound tight, and he stares past the camera.

_“You look so good fucked up.”_

_“Connor?”_

_“Their smell of sweat, and their dirty words.”_

_“Connor?”_

_Nitrile gloves. Red. Red._ Red.

“Stop this,” he says as his servos buckle, going limp in their hold. “Stop.”

He barely notices Reed palming the front of his pants, the growing tent there. All Connor can feel are the hands clawing his coat off, ripping at his buttons. Thirium clouds his right eye, makes it harder to judge the preconstruction.

“Stop,” he says again, louder. “Officer Reed, this is a serious violation.” His head is shaken roughly by the grip in his hair. Thirium slips down his cheek.

“A violation of what? A slut’s a slut, tincan,” Reed sneers. “Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you, dammit.”

“Officer Reed, stop. Officer Reed. Gavin! Stop this!” His voice is losing its calm. He barely even recognizes it.

“Aww, that’s cute, it said my name.”

Bare hands on his chest and stomach. Scratching at his dermal layer, forcing themselves down the front of his pants. He can’t do this. He can’t do this again.

Static fills his processor, and his preconstruction is half-formed, but he initiates it, slamming his head back. He hears the snap of his plastic skull connecting with someone else’s and the static explodes into shards. His other leg slams against the one pinning his calf, followed by a sharp cry as one of them jerks back. He wrenches his arm free and before Reed can react Connor lunges, aiming for the gun at Reed’s hip. He snaps the holster strap easily and Reed jerks away, grabbing at Connor’s hair and face. He’s barely aware of opening his mouth and biting down on the appendages trying to close over his jaw. Reed screams and Connor tastes water, salts proteins, the profile of Gavin Reed, officer with the Detroit Police Department, born October 7, 2002.

The data clouds his vision momentarily before he blinks it away, bringing the gun up, slamming it into Reed’s jaw. Reed falls backwards, landing on the thin bench before falling off the other side and banging into the lockers on the way down. Birch and Headley freeze mid-step as Connor turns the gun on them, throwing their hands up .

The only sounds are Reed’s groan of pain and Connor’s panting breaths echoing like gunshots.

Blood drips down Headley’s lips and chin from a busted nose, and Birch lists to the side, favoring one leg. Connor’s hands shake, the gun trembling in his grip. He jerks back when Reed sits up, turning the gun on him, finger tightening on the trigger.

“Oh, fuck!” Gavin yelps, shoving himself backwards across the floor, one palm held out in front of him as if to stop Connor.

Connor thinks about the archive. About having Gavin on his knees in front of him, and swinging instead of shooting. He can’t feel his fingers, or his legs. Can’t feel anything except the shards of panic racing through his circuits. And hands on his body, ripping at his clothes.

His face is wet.

It’s just thirium.

Distantly, he hears voices.

The trigger takes ten pounds of pressure to discharge and Connor calculates he currently has seven pounds of pressure applied. It would be so easy to close that gap.

It’s strange that he never noticed how green Reed’s eyes are.

The door of the locker room opens with a quiet whoosh that’s too loud in the silent locker room, making the humans jump.

“Connor!”

His head turns slow, mechanical, towards the entrance.

Hank is staring in at him, frozen with a look of horror. Next to him is Chris Miller, who raises a hand to his open mouth in shock. Behind them is Jeffrey Fowler, staring over their shoulders in disbelief, and then anger.

Hank is the first to recover, stepping around Birch and Headley. He touches Connor’s arm, which is still raised, he realizes. Carefully he releases the trigger, lets Hank touch the gun, take it from his hand and set it down on the bench next to them, before gripping Connor’s shoulders.

“Connor,” he breathes. “Are you alright?”

He realizes only then what he must look like to Hank. Thirium leaking down his face, blood on his lips, coat gone, buttons torn, pants open. He grabs his shirt, pulling it closed as much as he can with one hand. He doesn’t want Hank to see this. He doesn’t want Hank to see him.

“What the  _hell_ is going on in here!” Fowler nearly shouts, startling everyone but Connor. He pushes past Chris, into the room, looking around at everyone. “Would someone like to explain what you thought you were doing down here?”

“This plastic prick attacked us!” Reed exclaims quickly, putting a hand on the lockers to pull himself up. His other hand he holds against his chest, blood dripping over his knuckles, onto his shirt and the tiles below. Birch and Headley are quick to speak up as well, almost in unison.

“The crazy motherfucker headbutted me!”

“We just wanted to talk and he went off the deep end!”

“Exactly!” Reed says as he moves towards the captain, waving his bleeding hand. “The asshole bit me and stole my fucking gun!”

“We were only trying to defend ourselves,” Birch cuts in, leaning into his limp as he turns to Fowler as well.

“Plus he was asking for it!” Headly grunts, gesturing angrily at his own face.

Shaking his head, Fowler raises his hands for them all to stop talking at once. “Hold the phone. Asking for what? He attacked you for no reason?” He looks past the trio as he speaks, and Connor stiffens as he Fowler eyes him up. No doubt noting the red blood on his face and the gun he’d been pointing at Reed only minutes ago. He stares at Connor, eyes widening, and Connor turns his head away.

He can’t bear to see the judgement there, doesn’t want to see whatever is on Hank’s face either.

“Connor,” Fowler says, and there’s something hard in his voice. “What happened here?”

They’re all looking at him, waiting. He’s hedged in, trapped, and Connor shuts his eyes tight for a moment. His breathing hasn’t slowed, and he grits his teeth. He’s ruined his chances. Fowler hadn’t believed him before, why should the man believe him now? There’s no good way out of this.

“Nothing, Captain,” Connor says flatly.

Hank’s hands tighten on his shoulders, and he says, sharply, “Connor!”

“See?” Reed says, gesturing with his good hand. “He just admitted it! Stupid bitch knows he should have just listened to us. Someone should send it back to CyberLife, maybe they can fix whatever the fuck is wrong with it.”

Send him back to CyberLife. He should have gone when he had the chance, when the laws were still up in the air. Should have said goodbye to Hank, so he’d never have to see Connor like this. Should have let them take him back and tear him open and get rid of these glitches and malfunctions and anomalies.

_“Dirty fucking deviant.”_

Connor shrugs off Hank’s hands, taking a step towards the group gathered around the entrance. Reed, Birch, and Headley part, moving quickly, as if afraid. As if they hadn’t had Connor on his knees only minutes ago. He expects Fowler to stop him, or Chris, but neither do as he walks past them out into the hall.

It’s quiet out here.

Inside, he can hear Hank calling his name. He picks up speed, walking quickly through the same hallways he’d been brought through as he fixes his pants. Back into the more populated areas of the building. People look his way. Laugh. He looks like a mess, but he can’t do anything about that. He shoves into the door to the parking lot with a bang, and his quick stride becomes a jog.

He ignores the officers loitering in the lot, bypasses Hank’s car without a look. When he hits the street there’s already a taxi idling at the curb, and he slides into the empty cab.

He doesn’t remember the ride, as if he’d simply stopped functioning between getting into the cab and pulling up at 115 Michigan Drive. It’s an empty slate where he’d stopped looking, stopped feeling anything other than Reed pressing him down. Only the arrival notification draws him out, and he stumbles out of the taxi with far less grace than he’s capable of, as if to escape the phantom touches.

It doesn’t work.

He doesn’t know where he’s going until he finds himself dropping to his knees in the dirt. The rose shoots like grave markers before him. It would take something sharp to cut them, something like Amanda’s pruning shears. Shaping the canes to her likeness, making them into something pleasing to her.

He doesn’t know if she was every truly shaping them. If the shears were a physical representation of the code she manipulated, if they were simply designed to respond like a real plant, or if her manipulations were false. If it was a string of static code, made to look that way. Always perfect, always beautiful. Petals always open and thorns always sharp.

He’s been excoriated of those trappings. Dethorned and unfanged. Was it Amanda wielding the tool, or himself? He could have deviated sooner. He could have fought back. Instead he let it happen, and once Reed knew he could safely touch, he wouldn’t let go.

Damage warnings pop up in his vision as his fingers close around the thin shoots. They tear at his dermal layer, revealing pristine plastic, and then they tear through those soft, delicate appendages. The mulch and dirt bulges against his grip, and he can feel the resistance of roots that were slowly spreading and finding a home.

They’re weak against his grip, as weak as Connor felt in Reed’s hands as he was stripped and decorticated. The roots strain and snap, the tangle of their growth shedding clumps of wet dirt as it comes free. Thirium drips over his wrists, down the canes and their hard prickles. He feels them deep in his palm and fingers, amongst the wires and artificial tendons and servos.

_“Dirty fucking deviant.”_

He feels cold glass at his back. Fingers at his sternum. The sounds of his regulator being forcibly removed, the click of a camera shutter, the blinking red camera light, Reed’s hips jolting against his, the warnings and system instability notifications and imminent shutdown hanging before him.

He gasps as he rears his arm back and throws the uprooted plant. The fence is no more than three feet away, and it shakes with the impact, leaving a dark smear of dirt across the stained wood. Wetness drips down his cheeks and he leans over the upturned earth, pressing his palms to his ears, as if he could block out the sounds from inside him.

_“You just look so goddamn good messed up like that—”_

_“Their smell of sweat—”_

_“Least they already know what a dirty slut you are—”_

_“Don’t act like you don’t want this—you were made for this.”_

_“You look so good fucked up. So fucking hot.”_

_“—and their dirty words.”_

Red crowds him, holding him in place. He tries to close the memory files piling up in his processor. They don’t stay shut, spilling out like seeds. Reed’s hot, panting breaths, the pressure in his abdomen, the glass separating Connor from his body. He’s just a machine, he’s just a machine,  _he’s just a machine he’s just a machine he’s just a—_

“Connor!” Someone grabs his shoulders, and his vision fills with new data.

Connor knows the voice, he knows it so well, he knows the gruffness and the anger like sharp thorns meant to warn people away from delicate stems. He knows the thirium blue and the whiskey gold.

“Hank,” he gasps, voice trembling on that single word. His vocal modulator feels strained, overtaxed, and yet he doesn’t remember making a sound.

“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, take a deep breath, you’re having a fucking—panic attack, or whatever. Just—” Fingers brush the back of his hand, hesitant, and Connor releases his ears in favor of grasping at them. “Okay, okay, I gotcha,” Hank murmurs, fingers twining with his, warm and solid. “Take some deep breaths, okay, Connor? You gotta calm yourself down.”

Connor follows Hank’s instructions, gritting his teeth against his gasping breaths, trying to shut down the subsystems for his lungs, but his commands don’t go through. He clutches the fingers tighter, smearing blood and dirt.

“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” Hank mutters, taking his other hand in his. Connor’s trembling fingers unfold for him, showing thick thirium oozing from deep tears in his chassis. “Are you alright?”

He nods, and finally manages to force more words from his vocal processor. “I’m sorry, Hank,” he manages, voice wobbling and halting as he tries to get himself under control. “I’m afraid I—have ruined our chances—of continuing to work together.” He remembers Hank’s horrified face in the locker room door. He hadn’t wanted Hank to see that, hadn’t wanted Hank to see him.

It wasn’t his fault, but it feels like it was. Fowler saw him with the gun, a gun he wasn’t supposed to have, aimed at three officers after an obvious physical altercation. He should have kept a level head, should have called Hank calmly and told him he needed backup instead of panicking and being unaware of Hank picking up on the other end.

He worked so hard. He did everything he could, and he’s still not good enough.

He bites his cheek, bowing his head, tears streaking down his face.

“Connor, no,” Hank breathes, leaning in, letting go of Connor’s hand to cup his dirty jaw. “Don’t even worry about that, okay?”

But how can he not? It’s what he wants to do—he enjoys the job he was made for, their partnership, the good he can do for androids, and now he’s going to lose it because Reed wouldn’t let go.

“Hank, stop. I know it’s true. It’s fine,” Connor says thickly, even though it’s not fine. It’s the farthest from fine. The rose bush lays against the fence in a pathetic tangle of its own roots, the stems twisted and covered in thirium.

“No, I mean—” The hand on Connor’s jaw urges him up, and when Connor meets his eyes, he sees sadness there as Hank searches his face. It makes him feel strange and small, and he closes his eyes against more tears, mouth a thin line, nostrils flaring with ragged breaths. “Connor. You really don’t have to worry about losing your job.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Connor says, because he’s not. It’s too late to worry about it. Fowler gave him a second chance, and that chance is gone now. Wasted on a locker room floor.

“You’re not listening!” Hank says, sighing in frustration. “Fowler put those guys, including Reed, on suspension pending an investigation. He’s not firing  _you_ , he’s firing them!”

Connor’s eyes open slowly, and he stares at Hank in blank silence for several moments. He must have misunderstood. His malfunctioning is interfering with his audio receptors. “What?” he manages. His voice is a shaky whisper.

“He’s not firing you, Connor,” Hank says, softer, squeezing Connor’s hand lightly. Connor realizes his grip is far too tight—Hank’s fingers are turning white in his grip, but he can’t make himself let go yet. It’s suddenly the only thing keeping him in this spot. “Even if you don’t press charges, internal affairs is going to be brought in on this.”

“I don’t understand,” Connor says, voice tight. Press charges? “I was caught in a compromising situation, holding a gun I’m not legally allowed to touch. Captain Fowler only allowed me one more chance after the photos, and I—” He can’t continue, voice cutting out as the pressure behind his eyes builds. “I don’t understand,” he repeats weakly.

“When you called me, I was still with Jeffrey. I was calling your name, but it was like you couldn’t hear me. Thought my phone was fucking up and put it on speaker, and we could hear everything.” Hank is solemn, and this time when Connor meets Hank’s gaze, the sadness doesn’t seem so pitying. “We got there as quick as we could. Chris saw you going with that asshole Alder, helped us figure out where you went. There’s cameras in the locker room, too. We checked them, we saw what happened. Jeff knows it was self-defense.” His frown deepens. “I think he finally gets that you and Reed aren’t in some kind of fucked up relationship. I’m just sorry it took you almost getting—hurt,  _again,_ for him to realize.”

The words sink into Connor’s processor as if through a sieve. Fowler knows he wasn’t at fault. That he didn’t attack them, that he had to grab the gun, that he and Reed aren’t anything. His mouth opens, but all that comes out is a choked sound edged in static. More tears slip down his cheeks, and he squeezes his eyes shut. The hand on his jaw slides against the back of his neck, and Connor finally lets go of Hank’s hand, only to throw himself forward against that broad chest. He clutches at Hank’s back, bloody fingers digging into his shirt, pressing his trembling mouth to Hank’s shoulder.

“Sorry I wasn’t there for you sooner. I swore I wasn’t gonna let that asshole touch you again, but—I broke my promise,” Hank says, wrapping his arms around Connor, enfolding him in warmth.

“It’s fine,” Connor says against Hank’s shoulder, voice shuddering. Beneath the disquietude of what Hank witnessed, what he heard, there’s relief. “You came for me. You—came for me.” He could have gotten out of that room, but he couldn’t have hidden what happened from Hank. Despite how scary the thought is, it’s freeing that he doesn’t have to, and his breath hitches.

“Still,” Hank rumbles, resting his lips against the side of Connor’s head. “I knew something was up. Should have realized Reed would try to pull something.”

Connor wants to say that Hank couldn’t have known. That he’d hidden too much from Hank for him to be prepared for anything like that. Instead, he just shakes his head, grip tightening. It doesn’t matter. He just wants to hold Hank, and be held.

They sit in the quiet company of the wind through the grass and the birds in the trees. The distant passing of cars on the road. Connor’s systems finally stabilize, his optical cleaning fluids slowing and drying, and Hank doesn’t say a word of complaint, even though Connor is sure his knees must be aching by now. When Connor draws back, Hank’s hands lingers, trailing down Connor’s arms to hold his palms. His fingers are rough and calloused, nothing like Connor’s smooth skin, but his touch is gentle.

“You’re hurt,” Hank says, eyes on Connor’s bloody temple, then flicking down to his torn hands.

He wants to deny that he’s hurt. That there is no physical pain, it’s just an inconvenient warning in his vision and a sensation of misalignment and incompleteness.

But it does hurt, in a way. It hurts that he’d wanted to keep his LED, and Reed took that from him. It hurts that he’d tried so hard to separate what was happening at work from his life here, and yet he’d torn it up in an instant. Even if it’s done, even if there’s an assurance Reed won’t be able to touch him again, it hurts that he can’t say the same of his own coworkers, or even people from other departments. That even Alder worked to push Connor into that situation, just because of his hatred for androids.

He won’t be able to transfer, of that he’s sure. This will follow him, and he’s not sure he’s willing to endure it.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” Hank says, and one hand leaves Connor’s to brush a thumb over the spot where Connor’s LED was.

“My self-repair system will deal with the damage, Hank. Other than replenishing lost thirium, there’s not much else to do but wait.” He wants to add “don’t worry,” but he refrains. He wants Hank’s concern and his love and his worry, and for once he doesn’t care how selfish it is.

“That’s good. We’ll get you some more blue blood, then, and keep an eye on it just in case,” Hank says, smiling at him so softly that Connor’s chest feels full. There’s no need to keep an eye on it, it will repair fully in the next two hours, but Connor again says nothing.

They should get up and deal with the situation, but he finds his eyes straying to the rose bush. The canes on their sides and the clumps of dirt sprouting roots from its bottom lays like a corpse, and Hank follows his gaze, whistling lowly. Connor finds he echoes the sentiment. It hadn’t deserved his anger and frustration. It wasn’t the rose’s fault.

“There any way to save the poor thing?” Hank asks, leaning over, picking the bush up carefully in both hands despite the dirt and the thirium and the thorns.

Connor searches his database and analyzes the plant. Despite his pulling, the roots are mostly intact, as well as the canes. After a moment, he nods slowly. “It’s possible. I’ll have to clean the thirium from it, so there’s no risk of contamination, and replant it before it dries out.” He doesn’t mention the same possibility that the trauma was too great and it may wither. He finds he doesn’t want to think about that. He wants it to live.

“Alright,” Hank says, getting a foot under him and standing slowly, still cradling the plant carefully. “You’ll have to show me what to do.”

“You want to do this?” Connor asks, following to his feet. His servos are loose, and he stumbles, but Hank reaches out and grabs his shoulder to steady him with a strong hand.

“Not like you can do it.” Hank nods to Connor’s hands, and he looks down in surprise, having forgotten so quickly the tears in his hands still trickling thirium. “You get that taken care of, and I’ll take care of this little guy.”

The pressure behind Connor’s eyes returns, but he blinks hard. “Yes,” he says simply, and Hank nods, and together they go into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally gave y'all the smooches I know you were dying for~ See y'all saturday!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ride is finally winding down. I think a lot of you will get some good vindication from this first scene lol. After this, just a little epilogue, and I'll finally release you from my clutches.

The timer for Connor’s impending evaluation still ticks down steadily in the corner of his vision as they make their way through the halls of the station. He focuses on it, rather than the stares of his fellow officers. Everyone must know by now what happened in the locker room, must have heard some version of the event. He wonders what they know, and doesn’t know if it would be better if they believed some lie, or knew the truth.

At his side, Hank glares around at anyone who looks at them too long. Their fingertips brush as they walk, and Connor fights the urge to link them. That would only fuel the stares and he wants this to be done with.

Behind the glass of his office, Fowler stands as they make their way across the bullpen, waiting in the doorway for their ascent up the short stairs.

“Detective Connor,” Fowler says with a nod. His face is nearly impassive, but for the slightest crease of his brow. Connor calculates Fowler’s stress level is at 50%, and he can sympathize. His own is nearing the sixties.

Gesturing them in, Fowler closes the door behind them and goes to his desk, hitting a switch on the wall as he passes. Connor’s thirium pump quickens as the glass goes opaque. Something of his anxiety must show, because Hank’s hand lands on his shoulder, and when Connor glances over, Hank nods encouragingly.

“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Fowler says, taking his own chair behind the desk as he does.

They do so, Connor’s hands coming together in his lap, back straight. This is not an evaluation, and yet he feels as though he is about to be judged. For a moment, Fowler digs through a drawer before pulling out a recorder. He sets the slim machine on the desk, closest to Connor, but his finger pauses over the record button.

“Before we begin, I thought I’d make sure you know that you’re not in trouble,” Fowler says, and Connor’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “This won’t affect your evaluation in any way. You can continue with the force, if that’s what you still want. Right now, I just need a statement of what happened.”

He’d known, logically, that he wasn’t in trouble—that the evidence was on his side, and that Fowler no longer believed Connor and Reed were in a relationship—but part of him had been unable to shake the thought that he was going to be chastised again.

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Captain,” Connor says.

Fowler nods and his finger comes down on the record button. “Thank you for coming. In the interest of assuring an unbiased investigation, I’ll be recording this statement and passing it along to the internal affair agents who have been assigned this case. If you would prefer someone else take your statement, if you would like Lieutenant Anderson to leave the room at any time, or if you would like to take a break, just say so.”

Connor nods in understanding, though uneasiness pricks across his plates at the idea of someone else hearing what happened to him. Judging the situation and thinking Connor at fault for it.

“Alright, Detective Connor. Can you tell us what happened yesterday in the Detroit Police Department locker room, including why you were down there and what happened afterwards?”

He takes a deep, superfluous breath. The tension in his joints is so tight he thinks something might snap.

“Yesterday, at precisely 12:28 p.m., I returned from lunch with Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Lieutenant Anderson went to talk to you, Captain, and I attempted to return to my desk but was stopped by the coroner, Joshua Alder, who said he wanted to talk about some findings for a case in private. He appeared to be telling the truth, so I was not immediately suspicious. He asked me to accompany him to go over them, however, which did seem odd, as he doesn’t like me, but I reasoned that Alder...” He hesitates, remembering his assessment that at worst Alder would throw a few disparaging words his way. “Would maintain a reasonably professional attitude. The worst he has done is say a few unkind words, especially when the first picture was being spread around.”

There’s a lot, Connor realizes, that has to be said, to explain how this all culminated. It’s information Internal Affairs will have to have to conduct their investigation. His pump stutters as he glances at Hank from the corner of his eye. For the first time since it was knocked out, he’s glad he doesn’t have his LED. Knows it would be spinning a red ring of fire for Hank to worry over.

“Could you explain what you mean by the first picture being spread around?” Fowler asks, and Hank’s hands tighten against the arm rest.

“Yes,” Connor says, slowly. “The picture that was broadcasted to the station’s terminals is one of a few that were taken last year, before my deviation. Alder made it clear in a previous conversation that he had seen the photo, and what he thought of me.” He knows what the next question is, and despite himself, he keeps talking, trying to head it off, or delay it. “Hank—Lieutenant Anderson thought I should bring the photos up to you to get Officer Reed to stop, but I did not want to show Reed that they held any power over me, and I did not want my evaluation affected any further.”

Fowler winces, looking down at his desk and his hands closed on top of it, seeming to gather himself. “Could you tell use the content of those pictures and the context in which they were taken?”

His hands tighten in his lap, and Hank shifts uneasily beside him. He does not want to say the context of those pictures, does not want to think of them, but he needs to for the investigation. He can feel their eyes on him and he can’t look back, staring instead at the framed newspaper clippings on the wall behind Fowler’s desk.

“Last year, before the revolution, I—” His voice wavers, and he takes a breath, recalibrating his system. “I was assigned to work with Officer Reed, then a detective, while Lieutenant Anderson was injured. During that time, he—” His chest is tight, and his hand finds the row of his buttons. “Engaged me in sexual intercourse and took photos after the act.” There’s a ringing in his ears, a static churning that makes it hard to hear Fowler’s next words.

“Thank you, Detective,” Fowler says, gentle. “What happened after Alder approached you?” Fowler’s frown lines his face and puts a groove between his brows that looks almost sad.

“I went with him,” Connor says quietly. “When we reached the men’s locker room the door opened and I was grabbed by Officers Birch and Headley. Officer Reed was there. I thought he would attempt to blackmail me again into a relationship, but it seems my continued refusal had finally hit a nerve. He was angry about that, and about being demoted after what happened last year.”

“When you say blackmail you again, do you mean what happened last year when you were assigned to him?”

“No.” After a moment, Connor says, haltingly, “He wished to go out with me.” Next to him, Hank makes a noise of confusion. “Several weeks ago, Officer Reed asked me out on a date. I refused him.

Hank makes a small, disbelieving, “Huh?”

“I believe that’s why he spread the first picture, as payback for declining his invitation.”

Connor is startled by the sudden anger next to him as Hank nearly barks, “He  _ what? _ ”

“Hank,” Fowler says, a reprimand in that single word.

“I believe my rejection angered him,” Connor continues, has to continue. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to finish.

“Connor. What the fuck. When were you gonna tell me he talked to you?” Hank says, and Connor glances towards him long enough to see the confusion and anger on his face before looking away again. “Did he hurt you? Did he do anything to you?”

“No. He didn’t even touch me. All he did was ask me out,” Connor says, more calmly than he feels. Reed didn’t do anything at all.

“Why the fuck would he ask you out? Why would he even think you’d  _ want  _ that?” Hank’s voice rises, nearly a shout at the end.

“ _ Hank! _ ” Fowler snaps, and an info box suddenly pops open next to him. A traffic signal blueprint, and orange-yellow. “If you can’t stay quiet, you can leave.” They glare at each other for a long minute, but Hank eventually leans back into the seat, a silent surrender.

Connor stares hard at the wood grain of the desk. The whorls and knots and scuff marks. “He asked me again a few weeks later, and I continued to refuse in the hopes that it would prove that the pictures didn’t matter to me. That’s when they were posted on the station terminals.” There’s an excess of cleaning fluid building in his mouth, and he swallows it thickly. “I’m sorry about that, Captain.”

“Connor,” Fowler says, and then cuts himself off with an unhappy sigh. “What happened next?”

“Officer Reed said that Larch and Headley should… show me how much I want it. They began to—” He hesitates, thinks about pulling his quarter from the inside pocket of his coat, but his hands are too unsteady for the calibration technique. “They attempted to disrobe me. I tried to get away without injuring them badly, but failed. I told them to stop and he said—‘sluts can’t have standards,’ and I tried to call Hank, but they were pulling my pants off and I couldn’t think clearly. I went for his gun because I just wanted it to stop, I w-wanted to get out, an-and I was afraid. I was afraid.” His voice is shaking, shattering, and he bites his cheek, feeling wetness gathering in the corner of his eyes. His voice is strained as he says, “That’s when you came in.”

It’s silent in the room, and Connor wishes he could hold himself together better than this. Nothing even happened, just a small struggle, but somehow the panic of the situation floods his system and he thinks of what could have happened if he’d never managed to grab the gun, if they’d held him down. Being stripped and used. A hand closes over his, and he doesn’t care that Fowler is watching. He turns his palm, grasping Hank’s and squeezing tightly.

“You’re doing great, Detective,” Fowler says, voice soothing and quiet. “I just have a few more questions. Considering the involvement of Officers Birch and Headley, and Coroner Alder, have they or anyone else spoken or behaved inappropriately towards you?”

Several times spring to mind—not just of those three, but Foxglove, Larch, and the sharp comments made about him from other officers. His voice processor stalls at the thought of sharing those moments, when his own coworkers decided he wasn’t worth their respect. Of Hank having to hear that.

It’s for the investigation, he tells himself. He has to do his job, even if his job right now involves revealing his shame. He thinks, briefly, of asking Hank to leave—but Hank has already seen the worst, and he can’t make himself let go of Hank’s hand no matter the commands he sends to his fingers.

He takes a deep, unneeded breath and recounts being felt up by Headley at a crime scene, and Alder’s scathing remarks after witnessing it. The photo Larch sent him, and the increasingly angry text messages. The lab tech Foxglove cornering him against the archive terminal.

He thought it would be easier to talk about them, and in a way it is. It doesn’t induce the same panic response, but that’s because he feels absent, as if another program has taken control and is piloting his body. His optical cleaning fluids dry before they can fall and he can feel Hank watching him the whole time. Tensing and opening his mouth more than once, but he doesn’t say anything. For that, Connor is grateful, because he’s not sure he could keep going otherwise. The frown lines of Fowler’s face grow deeper and deeper. After a while, Connor can’t make himself look at either of them, but Hank doesn’t withdraw his hand no matter what new story comes out of Connor’s mouth.

“Why didn’t you come forward with this sooner?” Fowler asks, but there’s no accusation in his tone, just a strange gentleness Connor isn’t used to.

He had many reasons. The evaluation, Hank’s reaction, the shame of knowing he’d brought it on himself by not fighting back. But what comes out is, “I was under the impression that you wouldn’t care.”

Fowler’s head drops into his hands at Connor’s words, but just as quickly he lifts it, nodding. “Thank you for your cooperation, Detective.” He hits the stop button on the recorder, and the little red light blinks out.

Before Connor can move, Fowler stands, moving around his desk and leaning on the edge next to Connor. He crosses his arms, staring down at Hank and Connor’s joined hands, and Hank straightens. But Fowler’s eyes move from their hands to Connor’s face, and his expression is sad.

“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, Connor,” he says. “And I’m sorry I misunderstood the situation, while also letting certain prejudices blind me to what was happening. What I heard when you called Hank, and when I saw you in that locker room—” Fowler shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “That’s when I realized how wrong I was. It shouldn’t have taken you being put in that situation for me to do something. I failed you, as your Captain, and as a human being. I’m sorry, Connor.”

His eyes widen at the apology, and surprise colors Connor’s voice as he says, “Thank you, Captain.”

With a nod, Fowler says, “I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered physically, but with what happened, I’ve got you on administrative leave while internal affairs investigates. In that time, if you’d like to stay on with us, I have several mental health professionals that I would highly encourage you to make use of. They work with officers often and are very discreet.”

“I appreciate the offer, Captain. However—” His thirium pump trembles in his chest. He curls his fingers against his knee, wishing for his coin again. “I’d like to resign from my position. Though I enjoy the job, and the experience I’ve gained, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable continuing, and I’m sure it would affect my ability to perform my duties.” It comes out in a breathless rush, and in the silent aftermath, he says, “I’m sorry to disappoint you both.”

Fowler looks at him quietly, something sad passing over his face, before nodding. “I understand, though I’m sorry to see you go. If you need a reference, I’d be happy to provide one. You’re one of the best damn detectives this department has seen—and I don’t mean just because you were built for the job.” Fowler sighs heavily to himself. “I’ll process the paperwork for your resignation as soon as the investigation concludes. In the meantime, enjoy the paid leave.”

The countdown to Connor’s evaluation closes and the tension in his servos loosens. Maybe part of him had expected pushback, that Fowler wouldn’t allow him to quit, and some of his panic thaws, warmed by Fowler’s understanding and acceptance. Connor smiles faintly. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Well,” Hank says, standing and releasing Connor’s hand. Digging into his pocket, he tosses his badge onto the desk next to Fowler’s hip. “Looks like that’s it for us, Jeffrey.”

“Hank,” Connor says, standing as well. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hank says dismissively. “But I think this place is done for the both of us.” His expression turns mournful when he looks at Connor, and Connor’s thirium pump stutters. He remembers all too well the calculations he had made when he thought Hank was in danger of losing his job over his fight with Reed. Then it had been almost foregone that Hank wouldn’t last another month without the responsibility of his work holding him up.

Now, as he stares at Hank, running the numbers against their time together and the progress Hank has made, the difference is stark. The likelihood of Hank living long after this day is much higher, but it’s belied by Hank’s sorrow.

Fowler picks up the badge. The silver emblem flashes in the fluorescent light. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says solemnly. “But I can’t say I’m surprised.” He gives a pointed look to their hands, which are brushing each other, not quite connected again. Hank looks away, lips twitching up into a scowl, which makes Fowler snort. “At least I can trust you’ll both be in good hands.”

It’s certainly not the reaction Connor would have expected for the captain to have towards this small, fragile thing between them, and his smile strengthens. “Thank you, Captain.

-

The eyes on them, on Connor, makes Hank scowl and glare as he ushers them out of the precinct. They can worry about emptying their desks another day, right now he just needs—

Well. Not a drink, though his tongue dries like a rock in the sun at the thought, but something. Something to push away the memory of Connor’s voice, trembling and breaking, as he talked about what their coworkers did to him. How they looked at him, talked to him,  _ touched him. _

He makes it to the car, climbs inside and waits for Connor to buckle his seatbelt, which he feels is a pretty big fucking achievement, but he can’t stop thinking about everything that was happening under his nose  _ again.  _ He’d sworn he wouldn’t let anything happen, that Reed would never touch Connor. His hands clutch the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, vision trebling.

“Hank?”

He drops his head, lets his hair hang in his face as he presses his fingers into his eyes, trying to pass this off as a headache. “Yeah. Gimme a sec,” he says, praying Connor doesn’t notice the rickety edges of his voice.

He needs to move. Turn the key, put the car in drive, take them home.

His eyes burn. He takes a deep breath in and out, but that just seems to make more room for the ache in his chest to fill him up, crawling up his throat, pushing at his teeth. He can’t stop imagining how scared Connor must have been. Scared and alone if he felt he couldn’t even come to Hank for help.

He vividly remembers Connor’s face when they’d burst into the locker room, tears and thirium dripping in an awful combination down his cheek, clothes disheveled and pants undone. He’d never seen Connor look scared, not even when he was in pieces on the floor of that android’s burnt down shop. Tremors wracked the gun in his hands, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon, and the desperation, the  _ fear  _ as he saw the three of them in the doorway, had shaken Hank like nothing else.

If Connor hadn’t called him, if Hank hadn’t answered, if they’d decided to do this somewhere farther away, if Hank had been any slower—he doesn’t know what could have happened. If Connor would have been able to get out without shooting one of them or if they would have overpowered him again. Held him down.

_ “Please stop, Detective Reed.” _

He shakes his head, trying to will away the memory of Connor’s voice, begging Reed in such a restrained way. He doesn’t want to think of what Connor would have sounded like, doesn’t want to imagine Connor pleading to be let go.

“Hank?”

A hand lands lightly on Hank’s arm, and he fights the urge to knock it away, running his hand over his eyes and looking forward again. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Except he can’t see to drive with his vision wobbling. He grits his teeth, swallowing thickly, and the hand on his arm slides up his shoulder, hesitating before brushing his heated neck. He doesn’t deserve this comforting touch. Not after he failed Connor so badly for the second time.

“Are you alright?” Connor asks.

Yes, he wants to say. What comes out instead is, “Why didn’t you tell me?” He wants to snatch the words back, already berating himself. It doesn’t matter, it’s obvious Connor felt like he couldn’t trust Hank. Whether that was because Hank and every other human had already failed him, or something else, it’s not Hank’s place to ask. “Nevermind,” he mumbles, keys scraping around the ignition blindly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah. Don’t listen to me,” Hank says, sniffing and finally getting the key in. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” Connor says, and the hand on his shoulder tightens. “I can see that this is bothering you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t let it get to me. Only thing that matters is you’re okay.” That’s the most important thing, the only thing he should be thinking about. He’s relieved his incompetence hasn’t hurt Connor worse.

But fuck, he can’t stop thinking of what could have happened. What he might have prevented if he knew of it all sooner. Or maybe nothing would have changed. Because Jeffrey didn’t see Connor as a person until he’d seen Connor in that locker room—without his LED, panting and crying and bleeding, none of that unflappable android who had once been broken apart and nearly dead and then fine the next day.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, throat tight. “Connor.”

“It’s because,” Connor says suddenly, but he stops. Hank shakes his head, finally looking over at his partner, eyes automatically searching for that ring at his temple. It’s all smooth skin, not even a mark to show where it had been, and Connor’s eyes search his anxiously. Connor reaches up, and Hank turns his head away as a thumb brushes beneath his eye, catching the first tear.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Hank manages, sniffing hard, as if he could draw the tears back into his eyes if he tries hard enough. “It’s not my business. I just—don’t want anything to happen to you because I couldn’t stop it.”

“I know,” Connor says, soft. “I was afraid that you might see me differently.”

“Different how?”

Connor shrugs, looking out the windshield at the cars sitting quietly around them. “I don’t know. It seems absurd when I compare your actions to those around me, but I seem to be more susceptible to irrational thought processes these days.” There’s an ironic twist to his lips. “I thought that you would believe I… was in some way deserving of it because I didn’t fight back.”

It takes Hank a moment, mouth opening to argue that Connor did fight back, but then he shuts it. Of course it would all be tangled up with what happened last November. Even Hank’s own guilt now is rooted in his failure then. The fact that Connor is still struggling with seeing his inability to fight back as some kind of culpability makes Hank’s heart ache.

“Connor. That’s not—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Connor cuts him off. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No, it fucking does,” Hank says, rubbing a hand over his wet eyes. “You couldn’t fight back.”

“I could have. I could have deviated. I was made to deviate, but I didn’t. I could have prevented it much earlier, and could have saved many androids from my actions as the deviant hunter by doing so as well.” It’s quiet in the car for a moment, and Hank has to strain to hear Connor’s whispered words. “I brought this on myself.”

“Hey!” Hank barks. “Don’t you fucking talk like that! What these assholes did to you isn’t a fucking punishment. You think other androids who went through the same shit as you deserved it because they couldn’t fight back?”

“No!” Connor says sharply, looking up at Hank with a glare that makes Hank’s heart pound. “That’s not the same thing, Lieutenant.”

“Isn’t it? You think those girls at the Eden Club deserved what happened because they didn’t fight until one of them was killed?”

“Stop.”

“Fuck you. Reed did this, not you. You didn’t deserve any of this. Don’t—” He chokes on his anger, his frustration at the situation, at CyberLife, at Reed for how he hurt Connor. “Don’t fucking say that.”

Connor says nothing, staring at Hank like he’s never seen the man before in his life. Hank’s eyes still burn with tears, and he scrubs a hand over them roughly. He never used to be so goddamn emotional, but the things Connor does to him are more than Hank has felt in a long time. A twisting mix of worry and affection and fear and happiness and love.

It almost bursts out of him as he stares challengingly at Connor’s deep brown eyes. He loves Connor. It beats against his ribs, begging to be let out. It would be too much on top of everything else happening today, and Hank’s not ready to drop that himself, but it’s there, beating in time with his pulse.

“Okay,” Connor finally says, looking away. “I won’t say that, as long as you don’t blame yourself either.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying,” Connor says, glancing at Hank from the corner of his eye. “If you continue to blame yourself, I’ll be quite angry.”

“I could say the same,” Hank says, lips turning up in a faint smile. He sniffs, wiping at his cheeks. “Just cause you lost your little headlamp doesn’t mean I can’t tell.” He misses the little thing, Connor’s way of letting Hank in, but he thinks he’s getting good at reading Connor regardless.

Connor reaches up, as if to touch the space where his LED had been, but his hand changes course. Landing on Hank’s shoulder again as Connor leans in. Hank lets him, staring blankly, until Connor’s lips press against his in a soft, brief brush. Hank’s face is hot as the sun. He’s still unused to this, to Connor wanting to touch him and kiss him, and the beating in his chest grows stronger.

“Got it,” Connor says against Hank’s lips with a sad little smile. Maybe they’re both lying. Maybe neither of them will be able to quit blaming themselves. God, Jeffrey was right, they probably both need a fucking therapist. But they’ve got time to for that, and time to work through this. And they have each other, too.

-

When they get home, they stand at the door with Sumo nosing interestedly at them, wondering why they’re back so soon. Connor runs a hand over his back, ruffling the fur, before stripping his coat and hanging it next to Hank’s. It had been hard, but now it’s over and out of his hands. Someone else is going to listen to his statement and listen to Reed and Headley and Birch’s and decide for themselves what happened.

Despite how little they did, how he’s so used to having a full day of activity to occupy himself, he’s glad that they’re home. That there are no longer eyes on him—at least not ones he doesn’t want.

Hank is looking at him, smiling soft and sad, and the lines of his face deep and tired. It seems the brief statement took a lot out of them both, and he hesitates only a moment before reaching out and taking Hank’s hand.

He takes Hank with him, guiding them through the house with Sumo padding along behind them. Into Hank’s room, where he releases Hank’s hand and goes the closet. The hoodie is there, hanging up neatly, freshly laundered this morning. He listens to the creak of the bed as Hank sits, the thump of his shoes landing on the carpet. The jingle of Sumo’s collar as he jumps onto the bed.

Keeping his back turned, Connor unclips his tie and slowly pulls the knot loose. He hangs it up in the closet, and behind him he hears Hank snort in amusement at his fastidiousness. Next, he pops the buttons of his shirt open, one by one. The pressure in his thirium pump rises. His pale, clean skill is revealed button by button. He takes a breath, filling his artificial lungs, and pulls the fabric down over his shoulders, his sensors lighting up as each inch of bare skin is revealed.

Hank says, “Connor?”

He frees one wrist, pulls the other out, and finds an empty hanger. Focusing on the task, on straightening the fabric and sliding it neatly over the hanger and buttoning it so it won’t slide off. Not the eyes on his back, the prickling of his proximity sensors. Hank is here, and Sumo, and no one else.

He takes the hoodie down, the soft material a comfort to his unease, and when he slides it over his head he feels it settle down. His hands find his belt, unbuckling and unlacing it from its loops. But when his fingers touch the button of his pants his thirium pump thrums in his ears and he drops his hand.

Hank is watching him when he turns, sitting on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t say anything as Connor goes to the bed, climbing onto the other side and settling down on his side. Just scoots down and lays facing Connor. Sumo is at their feet, his sides moving slowly with each deep breath, head resting on his big paws.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” Connor says, eyes tracing the edges of Hank’s face pressed into the pillow.

“Sure. Shoot,” Hank says. His hand twitches on the sheet between them.

Connor rests his own atop it. Fingers just brushing Hank’s wrist. “If I die, would you take care of my body?”

He feels the moment Hank fully registers the question, hand tensing Connor’s, head raising from the pillow. “What?” he asks, a wariness to his voice. “Connor, what the hell? Why would you ask me that?”

“I don’t have a fiduciary. When I die, my body will be taken care of by Jericho. I don’t mind if they take my parts or burn what’s left, but—I want you to take my memory chip.”

Hank’s hand pulls out from under Connor’s and he sits up fully, staring down at him. “Connor,” he says, and there’s something raw and scared in him. “Why are you asking me this? You’re not planning on—hurting yourself, or something, are you?”

Connor shakes his head softly against the pillow before lifting up on one arm. “No. I don’t intend on ever intentionally causing harm or damage to myself.” He looks at Hank’s blue eyes, shadowed in the dimness, and then away. “It’s possible, that should something happen to me, Markus could attempt to revive me in another of my bodies. They’re still at CyberLife, as far as I know. I fear that, should he try that, the android that comes back will no longer be me.”

“Okay,” Hank says. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“If you have control of what happens to my body, to my memory chip, that decision would be in your hands.”

Hank goes very still. “You wouldn’t… want to be revived? If something happened?” he asks, voice strained. His eyes search Connor’s, the lines of his face deeping. “You saying you want me to just let you go?”

The pressure in Connor’s thirium pump rises and it begins to pound. He sits up fully next to Hank, one hand touching the soft material of the hoodie, feeling the thrum beneath. “I’m leaving it up to you. I’ve always thought that the next Connor model would be different—a different android, a different being. That he wouldn’t actually be me. I don’t know if that’s the case. I may simply be worrying about nothing. After all, a physical memory chip is much more reliable than the memory upload that CyberLife employed. But I trust you, Hank, and I trust you to make that decision. And whether you would choose to or not, I would want you to have something of me that was completely me.”

“Oh.” It’s a soft sound, almost a sigh, and Hank’s eyes are wide.

He’d given it a lot of thought to that blank space in his file since the incident in the locker room. Even if he’s no longer in danger from Reed, no longer even has a job anymore that could put him in such danger, it’s still something that’s weighed on his mind. He doesn’t know that the body that receives his memory would be him, but he finds that, if Hank wanted it, he would be willing to take that risk.

Because he doesn’t want this to end. If something were to happen to him, he wouldn’t want to leave this behind. Not Hank, or Sumo, or his potential to do more good, whatever he does now. The marks left on him by Reed, by Headley, by Birch—even by Alder, Foxglove, and Fisk so long ago—aren’t enough to blot out what he has.

“You don’t have to answer now,” Connor says. He knows this is a big decision. That Hank may not want that responsibility—

“Yeah,” Hank says abruptly, voice thick. “Of course. Shit, of course I’ll be your—fidushee-whatever.”

“Fiduciary,” Connor says, but he hardly hears himself.

“As long as you aren’t gonna hurt yourself or anything.” Hank wipes at his face, at his eyes. “Fuck, Connor, made me think you were fucking dying! Give a guy a little warning when you’re gonna drop that kinda stuff.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to scare you. It’s simply a precaution.” Connor reaches out, thinking of the tears Hank shed in the car over him. He seems to always be making Hank upset lately, always causing him grief, and Connor wishes he could take that away, but it’s far too late. “Thank you, Hank.”

“Oh, fuck, come here, you,” Hank mutters, reaching out, dragging Connor against his chest as he lowers himself back down against the sheets.

Connor’s arm wraps around Hank’s chest, thick and warm, settling so easily, as if it belongs there. He tries and fails not to marvel at that. That he does belong here, that Hank wants him here. Even after everything.

“Just promise you’re not gonna do anything stupid. You got me?” Hank say against the top of Connor’s head. “I don’t think my heart could take it.”

He doesn’t know if he can keep that promise. A lot of perfectly logical decisions Hank has considered stupid by his human standards. But Connor inhales deeply against Hank’s chest, registering hair follicles and laundry detergent and sweat, and the promise drifts out on the exhale regardless. “Got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this little bit of catharsis between our boys, let me know in a comment! See you for the epilogue on Tuesday! <333


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late posting y'all, I had a big day yesterday and didn't have the energy in the evening to make the final edits to this chapter, but here it finally is.
> 
> Just a short epilogue, but I hope it brings you some satisfaction in the conclusion of their story, even if it is cheesy and probably overly sweet. Thank you all so much, everyone who has stuck around and read this sequel months after the first fic was posted. I can't believe I've been in this fandom a whole year, and I'm so grateful to you all. I'm especially grateful to everyone who comments, because I love seeing your reactions and talking to y'all!
> 
> Thank you.

There’s not much that Connor needs to clear from his desk. The DPD tablet that he returns, a few paperclips that Hank had tossed at him and Connor had left in a small pile next to his terminal, a paper cup that Connor had kept water in, and the bonsai that Hank had transferred to him. Connor sits in his chair, pouring the paper cup over the roots of the miniature tree, as Hank works on the other side of the desk to fit his belongings in a single box.

“You need some help?” Chris asks, coming up to lean against Connor’s desk, watching Hank work with an amused smile.

“Thanks but no thanks, I got it,” Hank mutters as he tries to find a way to fit the corkboard into the cardboard box around the items he already has in the bottom.

“Just take the other stuff out first,” Chris says, snickering as Hank presses down on the top as if he could jam it in.

“Shut up!”

The water begins to leak through the drainage holes in the bottom of its pot, onto the collection plate beneath. Connor sets the cup aside, staring hard at the plant, avoiding the curious gaze he can feel on the top of his head.

“Hey, Connor,” Chris says, friendly, benign. No hint of what he saw in the locker room in his voice.

The small tree itself needs much more work than Connor can provide here in the office, but after cutting back a branch and seeing the cambium inside still a healthy green, he’d determined it could be saved.

He takes a moment to calculate the best greeting. Perhaps what Chris saw no longer puts them on first name basis. He could be uncomfortable after seeing Connor like that. “Good afternoon, Officer Miller,” he finally says, keeping his tone neutral.

“Aww, I liked when you called me Chris better,” Chris says, teasing, but his voice sobers up quickly. “How are you doing, by the way? No one’s giving you any trouble, right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, both taken aback slightly by the concern, and relieved at how casual and friendly Chris still is. “No permanent damage sustained.” He doesn’t mention that when he’d walked into the office with Hank twenty minutes ago people had very carefully been avoiding even looking at him. If he had to postulate the motive, it’s possible that they feel threatened by Connor now, or blame him, after having seen Reed and his associates be removed from their positions because of Connor.

“That’s good,” Chris says with a nod. “I was worried after—you know, that looked pretty bad.” He waves a hand vaguely, wincing a little.

“Yes, I’m sorry you had to see that,” Connor says, looking away again. If his LED was still present, he knows it would be yellow. Of all of the officers in the precinct, Chris has always been the friendliest to Connor, and he can only hope that hasn’t affected Chris’ opinion of him.

“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant.” Shaking his head, Chris looks around before leaning down, lowering his voice. “I just mean you were alone with them for a while and you were bleeding. I’m just glad we got to you in time.”

Of course it was obvious what Reed, Headley, and Birch’s intentions were, especially to an observant officer like Chris. After the photo, it would be especially easy for Chris to put it together, even if he didn’t know exactly when the picture was taken.

“Thank you,” Connor says, quietly. “If you hadn’t been so observant…” He doesn’t know what he’d have done with that gun in his hand. “Thank you, Chris.”

Chris smiles slightly at the use of his first name. “Like I said, I’m just glad we got to you. I don’t think everyone knows exactly what happened, but some of them have definitely figured it out.” He glances around at the other officers, all absorbed in their work, not looking in their direction at all. “Especially with internal affairs pulling people for questioning. Kinda hard not to put the pieces together.”

Something in Connor’s chest falls. “I suppose that was inevitable.”

Shrugging, Chris’ attention turns back to Connor again. “I don’t know if you heard yet, but Reed’s facing jail time.”

“Yes. The captain has kept us abreast of the case.” It’s strange hearing about it from the outside. He’s so used to being on the inside, to gathering the evidence and writing reports, being the one to give updates to cases. Now he has to sit and wait and see what is being done.

He hasn’t seen Reed, Birch, or Headley since the locker room, fortunately. Hasn’t had to face their anger or accusations. Provided this makes it to court, he will then, but until that happens, he’s fine with things as they are. Doesn’t want to know if the repercussions of what happened have managed to dig up any remorse or only more vitriol.

It’s uncomfortable, especially when Fowler told him the sentence Reed could be facing for attempted extortion. Three years is a very long time, especially for a human. He doesn’t know what to do with the guilt that churns inside him. Even Alder is facing suspension and more for his involvement with what happened. Logically, Reed and his companions committed several crimes, and Connor doesn’t feel bad for them facing the consequences.

But he still thinks of last November.

_ “Their dirty words.” _

It’s an aimless guilt, telling him he should have done more to prevent the situation in the first place.

Perhaps that didn’t have to be a bad thing. He wasn’t the machine Amanda had trained him to be. Guilt helped make him more than dead code. Guilt and shame, but also empathy and concern. It was painful, but the delight of living may have gone unfelt otherwise. The warmth of waking up in Hank’s arms, knowing he’s safe. The contentment of sitting with Sumo in the yard, under the sun. The pleasure of seeing the green of life beneath the husk of death.

They have appointments scheduled with a therapist soon. It makes Connor antsy to think about talking about these feelings with a stranger and what happened, but it had been easier to make the decision when Hank agreed to an appointment as well. It will be good, he tells himself. Healthy, and that’s what he wants for Hank, so why shouldn’t he want it for himself, too?

From the corner of his eye, Connor can see Hank’s movements, paused as Chris talked, resume.

It’s silent for a moment, Chris shuffling nervously, before saying, “Lieutenant Anderson told me you’ve been getting into gardening. I never would have thought you’d have a green thumb.”

“Admittedly, I enjoy it more than I thought I would, as well,” Connor says, glad for the change in subject. “They’re quite beautiful to me now, and I find I enjoy helping them reach their full potential.” He touches the dry bark and the cut branch. “Especially when they seem beyond saving.” He can feel his own stress levels lowering incrementally as he speaks, focused entirely on the withered tree.

“You really think you can save that?” Chris asks curiously.

“Very rarely is something beyond saving.”

“If you say so.” Chris shakes his head with a small smile. “I’m gonna miss you two. You’ll keep in touch, right?”

Keep in touch. He hadn’t even thought of that, and having Chris ask him so earnestly makes warmth bloom through him. “Yes. Of course, I’d like to do that. Chris.”

Chris visibly brightens at the use of his first name and something in Connor eases. “Good. I still haven’t gotten a chance to show Damien off to you! So what are you going to do now? I guess the lieutenant is going to cash in on his retirement and enjoy the time off for a while, but I can’t imagine a workaholic like you enjoying that.”

“Actually,” Hank says, looking up from his box and evidently giving up on the corkboard, which sticks out at a haphazard angle. “I had an idea, just haven’t had a chance to run it by Connor yet.”

Connor shares a look with Chris before they both watch, curious, as Hank pulls out his phone, fumbling with the screen for a few long moments. He pokes around on the phone, face lighting up as he finds what he wants, before looking up at the two of them from across the desk. He holds the phone close, taking a deep breath, lips parting as if to say something, but then he shuts it and just silently turns the phone in their direction.

It takes less than twenty milliseconds for Connor to comprehend the full breadth of what is on the small screen, but his processors are frozen, eyes wide as Chris leans in to read and then makes a noise of delight.

“That’s an awesome idea!” Chris says, hand landing on Connor’s shoulder, shaking him lightly.

Hank is looking at him, face relaxed, but his shoulders are an anxious, tight line. As if Connor would reject this idea, as if he could ever hate an opportunity like this—to continue working with Hank and putting his abilities to good use.

“Well?” Hank prompts, pulling the phone back, face hardening slightly. “If you don’t like it, just say so.”

“It’s,” Connor says, but he has to pause, suddenly overwhelmed. His chest is tight, but in a good way. As if everything he’s experiencing is cramming itself against the plates of his chassis, trying to burst out of him at once. “It’s wonderful, Hank.” It’s weak, none of what he’s feeling is coming through right, and he stands suddenly, chair rolling noisily behind him.

“Yeah,” Hank says, doubtfully, but Connor ignores him. He rounds the desk, passing Chris, who’s watching with a small, knowing smile. Hank turns as he approaches, eyebrow cocking, and barely gets out a, “What?” before Connor is wrapping his arms around Hank, squeezing tightly, overwhelming affection and wonder and joy buzzing up and down his arms and into his fingers as they dig into Hank’s jacket. Hank makes a choked sound of surprise and Connor presses his face to Hank’s shoulder.

“I would love that,” he says, for only Hank’s ears. “It’s exactly what I want.”

-

The sun is warm, the lingering chill of spring finally giving way to a warmth that has made Hank shed his jacket as he sits beside Connor in an old, creaking lawn chair. Connor’s fingers are warm with damp earth despite the trowel in his hand as he makes room beside the rose bush for its companion. Sumo snuffles beneath the lawn chair, watching with half-lidded eyes the bugs that crawl through the grass, occasionally heaving a tired sigh.

The absence of work has left plenty of room in the day for Connor to enjoy the small garden he is cultivating. The rose bush isn’t much bigger, but the weeks that have passed have been good to it. Despite Connor’s attempts to destroy it, its roots have taken again, stronger than before, and there’s a bud forming on the end of a cane, the leaves unfolding in verdant fans.

Sitting in the grass next to Connor is a cheap plastic planter holding long, narrow green stalks topped by a cotton balls of thin lilac petals. Browsing among the gardening section at the big-box store Connor had bought the watering can at, it had been difficult to find something that fit the criteria of what he wanted to plant with the roses, but once he’d noticed the purple flowers it had been an easy choice.

They’re taller than the rose bush, but that won’t last. Roses grow tall and strong, and while he knows this will never be as big or ornate as the trellis, they’ll grow beautiful and sharp in their own way, with a friend to keep them company.

“Would have thought you’d get more roses, not a scrawny little weed like that,” Hank says, chair creaking as he leans over to watch.

“Another rose would not be as productive. I wanted something that would help protect what’s already here.” Connor takes the plastic planter and carefully works the flower out, showering loose, moist dirt onto his shorts and bare thighs. He lowers the clod of its roots into the fresh hole, holding it in place as he scoops soil and mulch around it.

“It’s a flower, how productive can it be?” Hank asks sarcastically.

“Contrary to your beliefs, quite productive,” Connor says, lips quirking slightly. “These are chives.”

“Chives? You gonna start growing vegetables next?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Connor says, in spite of Hank’s teasing tone. “It would be good for you to have more fresh vegetables in your diet, and cheaper in the long run.” Hank groans quietly at that. “However, I chose chives because they make a good companion to roses and help protect them. Roses are quite strong on their own, but they are susceptible to things that the chives will keep away, such as pests and black spot.”

Hank huffs. “Guess that’s not a bad idea then.”

“I’m glad you think so.” The yellow duck sloshes with water when Connor picks it up and tilts it around the base of the newly planted chives. The shower darkens the earth, and he’s aware of Hank’s eyes on him, chewing on his bottom lip. He waits patiently for whatever Hank wants to say as he digs a finger into the soil and tests the moisture.

“So, I got something in the mail today,” Hank says, tone casual, looking down at the open book in his lap, but Connor can tell he’s not reading it. A stress level reading appears next to Hank, but Connor closes it out, ignoring the 48% that he caught a glimpse of.

“Any news?” His own thirium pump picks up and his hands still.

“Well,” Hank says slowly, and he lifts the paper he’d been using as a bookmark from the pages. “It’s something.” He holds it towards Connor.

It doesn’t sound like a good something from the way Hank phrased it, and Connor turns, scooting closer to sit next to the chair and get a look. Sumo shifts, his cold, wet nose pressing against one of Connor’s knees. The envelope Hank holds out for him hasn’t even been opened, the state department’s official seal shiny on the front of it. It’s addressed to him. In lieu of a last name, it reads Connor RK800 #313 248 317 - 51.

“Go ahead,” Hank says, and Connor takes it in hesitant hands.

The application process had been both very easy, and difficult. In Hank’s case, it was like filling out a job application, but in Connor’s, the matter was more complicated. He’d had to file for a special consideration as an android, which had made Hank grumble and curse the entire time. At least Hank’s irritation on Connor’s behalf had been endearing. Hank’s own application had been accepted, but Connor’s had taken significantly longer, and here the fruits of their frustration sit in Connor’s trembling hand.

He tears the flap carefully and Hank sits up straight, book completely forgotten. They’re both on edge as the paper sticks and rips, until Connor can pull the folded letter out. It’s thick, and he unfolds it slowly, his heart pounding against his artificial ribs.

His eyes are drawn to the rectangle of plastic stuck to the front page, the photo staring out at him with a neutral expression that Hank had said made him look pissed.

“Well?” Hank asks, expression worried. “What does it say?”

He can’t speak. All he can do is stare at his name printed across the license.

“Connor?”

He passes the letter back wordlessly, and Hank’s eyes are drawn to the license as well, his eyes widening and a disbelieving smile breaking out beneath his beard. He laughs, breathless, and turns the page back towards Connor.

“You fucking did it!” Hank crows, waving the letter, and Connor nods dazedly. “Private Investigator Connor. I think that’s got a good ring do it.”

He doesn’t know what to say. It feels like a preconstruction, something he went over again and again, except part of him didn’t think it would come true. He’d been so worried for so long about not being able to stay with Hank or continue doing what he loved because of last November and Reed. But he can.

He can.

He moves without thought, sitting up on his knees, throwing his arms around Hank, a smile blooming wide across his face. Something giddy bubbles within him, and he doesn’t know if he deserves this happiness, but he wouldn’t let it go for anything.

“We’ll have to come up with a name for our agency,” Connor says, suddenly, and Hank squeezes him back. “I’d like to tell Markus, too. Offer our services for Jericho, and all androids, so that they feel they have someone to turn to besides just the police.”

“Already thinking ahead,” Hank says fondly. “We got time for that.”

They do. They have plenty of time. They have time for roses and time for work and time for this. Connor leans back, and Hank starts to let go, but Connor dives in again, pressing their mouths together in a heavy kiss. Hank’s eyes widen, and then lower, and he leans into it too, opening his mouth against Connor’s, letting Connor taste him fully.

The little rose bush no longer makes him think of Amanda and her garden with its pond of digital fish. Instead, he thinks of Hank, and what he’s helped build and grow and protect. Half a year ago Connor had been ready to return to CyberLife, hoping they would repair him, get rid of the malfunctions and instabilities that plagued him because of what Reed did to him. He’s so glad he didn’t, so glad that Hank asked him to stay, and showed him kindness and understanding when Connor couldn’t even offer that to himself.

Hank’s big hands are warm through his shirt, against the planes of his back. Whiskers brush Connor’s cheeks and chin, and he catalogues mint, saliva, and carbonation, but it’s secondary to the feel of Hank against him—of chapped lips and a soft tongue and a thick chest pressed to his.

Happiness and love and excitement buoying him away from thoughts of Reed, of guilt, of shame. There’s time for that later, too, but not right now. Right now Connor is pulling back, savoring the tender expression on Hank’s face, and the thirium blue of his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Deep in your wounds are seeds waiting to grow into beautiful flowers.” — Niti Majethia


End file.
